


Joker/Fracture

by Small Fortunes (SmallFortunes)



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Gen, Original Artwork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:47:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 21,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28150386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmallFortunes/pseuds/Small%20Fortunes
Summary: 1981: A snapshot of Gotham City swelling under the pressure of revolution. Broken down comedian Arthur Fleck loses his job as a party clown and children's entertainer, the only means he had of supporting his ageing, mentally declining mother. When an ex-colleague gives him a lead to a theatre across town that may be hiring staff, the softly spoken Arthur turns up at the backstage door wearing his pride and heart on his sleeve.A chance meeting with the enigmatic British theatre director, Lauretta Styl, unlocks a path of shimmering opportunity amidst Arthur's swelling battle with mental illness and deep-seated scandal.A tight, tensely written alternative tie-in short story to the original 2019 Multiple Academy Award Winning theatrical masterpiece. Complete and fully illustrated featuring original artworks inspired by the film.(Readers be advised this story contains film spoilers.)
Kudos: 8





	1. One.

**Author's Note:**

> Joker/Fracture is independently published as a not-for-profit fan-based digital e-book. Joker characters and locations are the intellectual property of Warner Bros. Pictures. Copyright infringement is not intended.  
> Original characters, locations and concepts remain the intellectual property of Small Fortunes Independent Publishing. This short story is produced for entertainment purposes only.  
> Small Fortunes Independent Publishing would like to thank Warner Bros. Pictures, Bill Finger, Bob Kane, Jerry Robinson  
> Questions and Comments: E-Mail: spidercraft@gmail.com  
> All artwork created by Small Fortunes.

* * *

The chill of the September rain had promised nothing more if not the early coming of a frigid Winter haze that threatened downtown Gotham City. The people scattered beneath their black umbrellas, clutching newspapers and hot coffee cups on hurried footfalls, keen to get indoors. Into their offices and shop fronts where they might escape the cutting winds that sliced, unhindered through their layers of clothes. Traffic drove with their headlights on though it was mid-morning and heavily overcast under the sheeting torrent of water that collected in the gutters and soaked the stacked trash bags piled in the alleyways.

This sanitation workers strike was getting ridiculous. It was only a matter of time before private enterprise and public malcontent merged to a compromise. Nineteen-Eighty-One had lagged to become a gruelling year across the nation. The people were getting tired of having to burn their own refuse. Clean air in the city was getting harder to find without having to wrinkle your nose at some foul stench whilst walking down the street.

And here they were.

The glorious Eighties.

Progressive freedom, entrepreneurship, education, industry. An endless stockade of possibility and expansion in the "land of the free".

Nineteen-Eighty-One had lagged to become a gruelling year.

But none so gruelling as it was to thirty-four-year-old Arthur Fleck.

To think.

Everything was going so well. More or less.

Arthur fashioned himself an up and coming comedian who spent countless hours filling a battered notebook with an array of satirical, observational comedy. A number of classic jokes and one-liners that he thought were particularly amusing, were scrawled in a careless, immature left hand. Occasionally punctuated with attention-grabbing images from magazines and newspapers that he found of interest. His index of jokes were far more interesting than the note book's more conventional purpose. Arthur's state-funded and over-worked registered physiologist has suggested he use this book as a journal to record his thoughts and feelings. An outlet to assist in ordering his chaotic array of thoughts. From an early age Arthur had been diagnosed with a troubling cascade of mental illnesses. Amongst these clinical diagnoses were agitated depression, anxiety, physiological ticks that manifested themselves in the form of uncontrollable fits of laughter and borderline, low-level schizophrenia, amongst other problems.

Arthur had, throughout his life, with the assistance of his equally dissociative and concerningly ill mother, been taken to an array of doctors, specialists and clinicians that had connected him with an ever-increasing roster of daily medications designed to tweak his unbalanced cerebral chemicals, allowing him to function in a less encumbered capacity. Currently, Arthur was on nine separate medications whose purpose was varying. Pills to fight depressive episodes, pills to regulate his anxiety. Pills of an anti-psychotic nature, pills to help him sleep. His prescriptions were filled fortnightly and increased or reduced depending on the outcome of his frequent visitations with his psychologist.

There was little joy to be had in Arthur's life. For he lived as the man of a small one-bedroom apartment on 42nd Street with his ailing mother, Penny. In her lucidity she had supported his dreams of entertainment, instilling in him the virtues of his existence being a blessing upon the world. That he was to be a ray of joy and happiness unto all. That his father, though very much estranged, would be proud of him, for he was a good boy. Kind-hearted, decent, soft-spoken and gentle of nature.

And yet, Penny's deteriorating mental health and inability to function, meant Arthur had to quit his schooling in his mid-teens and taken on the role of full-time carer. Cooking, cleaning, shopping and bill-paying were amongst his daily routine, removing him from the education system prematurely. This state of living had its own pitfalls. He'd lost contact with his friends, few if any ever sought to write or call leaving Arthur regrettably alone.

In spite of this, Arthur pressed on, finding employment where he may. Slightly difficult without a high-school or college certificate to his credentials. Not impossible, however. He ran a series of local jobs across town. Working at a car wash, as a factory pick and packer and over-night replenishment staff at a supermarket were all positions he held in his youth for several years. Often working two positions in tandem with little respite in between. He made it a habit of taking Sunday's off duty where he may so that he and his mother might take a stroll down the park and enjoy a cup of coffee and a nice sandwich at the cafe if she was feeling strong enough to leave the apartment.

His love of spreading laughter and joy had eventually seen him to finding a contractual position with a small business known as Ha Ha's Entertainers. Ha Ha's specialized in loaning performing clowns to businesses and events across town be it children's parties, business promotions or charitable events.

His contract at _'Ha Ha's Entertainers'_ had been a blessing. A means to segue into his dream career of stand-up stage performance. Financial stability, though meagre as his pay-cheques were, seemed sufficient to maintain his mother along with her pension. At very least the bills were paid and there was food in the fridge. Their lifestyle was far from luxurious. Their apartment was a heavily dated decaying art deco building constructed in the early sixties for which building management was lax with general maintenance. That damn elevator had been on the fritz for longer than Arthur cared to remember despite how often the residents complained. Even so, it was home. If nothing more.

Now, what would he do?

In spite of his sincere pleading, his boss had dismissed him with callous words. Arthur swallowed his regret as he cleaned out his locker. His worldly possessions, magic props, theatre makeup and his journal packed into a brown paper bag.

He'd got on relatively well with his colleagues, or so he thought. The boss said he made them uncomfortable.

Now he regretted ever accepting that pistol.

That gentle favour had turned to ash. He found himself wondering if he'd been set up for this fall. Why did he bring the gun on shift? Protection yes, but, it wasn't supposed to end like this. His ribs still ached where the thugs had knocked the wind out of him. And raising his right arm to comb his hair in the morning brought a shattering burn across his shoulder blade. He couldn't sleep on that side without whimpering.

Even so those last angry words replayed themselves in his head. He made ready to leave 'Ha Ha's' for the last time. Punching out that clock and vandalizing their stupid sign was hardly enough. He had half a mind of going back and kicking the shit of the boss' car. Letting down the tires. Taking a crowbar to the windscreen. God! His head was pounding. His heart in his throat. He thought he heard his name as he marched down the street. He'd take the 42 bus downtown but stop at the newsagent on the corner first for a pack of smokes.

"Arthur! Hey, Arthur, wait up man, c'mon!" His coat sleeve was tugged on. Aggravated, he ripped his arm away, noting Jimmy's profile. That hawk-like nose and slackened jaw-line of his colleague, well, ex-colleague now.

"What?!" He bit out sharply, coming to a standstill and making the younger man wince and furrow his brows. The smell of greasepaint and cloves coming off Jimmy's sage green button-down and corduroy jeans.

"Jesus man, I'm sorry. Getting totalled like that just ain't right. What they sayin' 'bout that gun bein' real though-"

"It was just a prop, for an act." Arthur repeated for the third time that day, cutting Jimmy off cold. He was starting to wish the lie was real. The tremor in his hands was more than the need for another hit of nicotine. The wind wasn't helping.

Jimmy, however, nodded, searching Arthur's careworn face for a moment before pressing on.

"Yeah well, listen. I got a buddy across town what works as a roadie for this place called the Regale Theatre Company. It's run by some overseas chick. I don't know if they're hiring any, but if you ask for Bill Tormey at the loading bay, he may know somethin'." Jimmy pressed a newspaper clipping where he'd scrawled the theatre's address and Bill's name in blue ballpoint across a show advert into Arthur's reluctant cold hand, explaining, "He's usually on shift till six on Thursdays through Saturdays. Tell 'em his ol' pal Jimmy sent you. I dunno. Maybe they might got somethin' for you. You never know."

Arthur stared at the clipping and its scrawled letters for a few lengthy heartbeats. His anger dissipating into an anxious ball that constricted in the top of his chest and forced him to swallow. He nodded slowly, muttering a 'thank you' as he folded the clipping in half and pushed it into his breast-coat pocket.

"Yeah, all the best, pal. Maybe I'll see you 'round." Jimmy said with a nod, slapping his hand across Arthur's bruised back almost parentally. The gesture may have been awkward, but never forced. Jimmy wasn't a bad guy. Arthur shook his hand, exerting an undercurrent of his frustration into that handshake before muttering a final goodbye and turning away.

He was pissed off, cold and hanging for a cigarette.


	2. Two.

He'd arrived some forty-five minutes early to his appointment. Well dressed and neatly groomed, he left his mother a hot breakfast and fresh coffee, too anxious to eat himself in spite of her complaints of his decreasing weight. He'd evaded her questions until Thursday, unsure of how to break the news of his job loss. He wasn't sure he was processing the information himself. He'd wake before the alarm and instinctively make for the bathroom catching his reflection in the mirror and suddenly being sickened by the lash of anxiety that belted his heart into hammering painfully against his ribcage. He hated this ache. Feeling this insecure. 

Breathe. 

Focus.

First breakfast.

Shower and dress.

Think it through and write it down. 

His therapist may have been virtually unresponsive but she had given him at least general advice to keep him functional. This, and a prescription for medication that kept him moving, the undertow of crushing depression dissipated by one more pill. 

Now, Arthur stood across the street from the theatre leaning against the glass window of a rundown aquarium where he was watching the crimson fanning tail of a Siamese fighter fish as it drifted, predatory and majestic in its tiny cubed tank. This miraculous creature was one of many housed in tiny plastic enclosures that made up the curious window display and reminded Arthur of little people each housed in their separate apartments. Around him, the city throbbed and bustled. Men and women in business attire, couriers, postal workers, labourers and the general population moved with purpose to and fro. An endless line of traffic rolled on up and down the road whilst he burned down his third cigarette that morning. It was almost time. 

He was welcomed through the stage door by a lady who answered his knock and introduced herself as Martha Kara. She was tall and thin, well into her 60s but spry and quick to smile. Her graying russet hair, rolled into a tight bun was beset by at least two pens. She led Arthur inside explaining that they were setting up for technical rehearsals later that morning, apologizing for the ladders, tools and timber. The carpenters were in adjusting the set and shouting instructions to one another on ladders whilst riggers were busy overhead running cables for the stage lights. 

Martha advised she was the booking agent and stage manager during most seasons as she guided Arthur up a narrow winding staircase backstage, past well-lit dressing rooms and open offices. The smell of fresh paint, cut timber and old leather seemed comforting, if not a little overwhelming. It appeared as though the walls had their peeling wallpaper repaired far too often for it hung poorly in some places, frayed and ageing. Punctuated with a history of live performance posters tacked haphazardly to the hallway walls. As they walked a narrow corridor above the stage, Arther's eyes wandered over the run of bill posters for performances that had been and gone. He would have liked to have lingered and read their titles and cast names, however, Martha's brisk pace lead them promptly to the theatre director's door. A name was painted upon the dark timber in faded gold lettering. 

It read: _'Dir. Lauretta Styl'_

His nervous tension elevated sharply as Martha knocked upon the door with the backs of her knuckles. 

A distinct voice could be heard closing the distance from the other side before the door was swung open to reveal a striking, slender woman in a duck blue blouse with its sleeves rolled to her elbows. A telephone receiver pressed between her ear and shoulder. She carried its base in her spare hand, motioning for her guests to join her within. Arthur hesitated a moment before following Martha's cue to enter the room. 

The pair were silent for a string of moments as Lauretta's brisk British accent negotiated the end of the call diplomatically before settling the receiver back into its cradle with a sharp click. She tugged at the cable and set the phone back upon a ledger and paper-strewn desk that dominated the majority of the room before turning and fixing her guests with an apologetic smile. 

"Laura, this is Mister Arthur Fleck," Martha began by way of introduction. 

"Yes, of course. Welcome to the Regale, Mister Fleck. Thank you for coming down. You worked with Jimmy Parkelle at Ha Ha's I understand?" 

It took two beats or more for Arthur to process what was being said. He'd rarely been addressed by a lady with such directness. Her pale complexion and murky blue eyes were a stunning contrast. She appeared to be perhaps in her early forties. There were few lines on her face, save for three small furrows between her brows. Arthur noted the easy way in which she reclined against the edge of her desk before he quietly replied his accent, nodding and pressing his hands into his coat pockets. 

"I did," he explained, "until recently. It was Jimmy that introduced me to your roadie, Bill. He was good enough to arrange this meeting for me. He said if I were to talk to you, you might have some work available." 

Lauretta nodded gesturing to a tobacco coloured chesterfield sofa that sat in the far end of the uncluttered small room. 

"Sure, well, let's talk about it, shall we? Martha, can you be a darling and fix Arthur and I a cup of coffee? How do you take yours, Mister Fleck, milk and sugar?" 

"Uh...yeah...please and thank you." 

"Right you are, dear." Martha replied brightly, turning on her heel and promptly shutting the office door behind her, blocking out the general commotion of the theatre downstairs. 

"Take a seat with me, Arthur, tell me a little more about yourself. " Laura began, settling herself down into the well-worn cushions. Arthur followed suit taking his slender strides around the timber coffee table and seating himself at the opposite end of the sofa. He smiled at his hostess, running a hand through his chocolate coloured curls self consciously. 

Aside from his mother and his therapist, Arthur rarely interacted with women in such an intimate setting, let alone within a professional context.. And being asked about himself outside of clinical regard was cause for nervousness. He stalled the conversation, pulling a cigarette pack from his coat pocket and asking for permission to light up. 

"By all means," Laura affirmed, reaching over and producing a clean glass ashtray from under a newspaper at her desk and placing it before her guest atop the coffee table. 

He gave his quiet thanks, offering the open Malboro reds packet to the director who thanked him for his kindness and advised she was in the process of cutting down herself. 

“It’s remarkably expensive to maintain a smoking habit in Gotham. Stress being such a fickle creature. I’ll accept this once. Thank you.” She said leaning forward as Arthur produced his lighter with a flourish, his slender fingers snapped a small flame, lighting the lady’s cigarette first, lingering a moment to admire the straight line of her nose and the subtle scent of her fresh, rose perfume, before leaning back to light his own.

The pair sat in appreciative silence enjoying the drawback into their lungs, two plumes of blue-tinged smoke floated lazily into the air above them and Arthur found himself gratefulof having a distraction for his hands. Lauretta was strikingly attractive and her accent was refreshing and different in this otherwise extremely American neighbourhood. He’d never had much contact with foreigners and could only imagine their perceptions and attitudes from the films and programs he’d seen televised. On occasion his favourite talk show host, Murray Franklin would have an international artist or performer guest on his program, but that in itself was rare. 

“Now, don’t sit on ceremony, Arthur, tell me more about your situation and we’ll see if I can’t be of some use to you.” Lauretta prompted, noting that Arthur appeared inwardly uncomfortable and in the midst of trying to conceal it, though his eyes fixed upon hers for a few moments before darting away. She could not help but note their colour. In this light, they were a remarkable bluish green that was as clear as spring water. He smiled reservedly and crossed his legs leaning forward a moment as if he meant to say something very important, and then thought better of it, snapping his mouth closed and leaning back away to drag off his cigarette. 

This interesting nuance of motion only drew Lauretta’s attention more profoundly. She didn’t wish to rush her guest, but at the same time, there were a number of pressing details that required her attention and were time-critical in their proposed completion. 

Regardless, she was patient and rewarded for her resilience. Quietly, as though he meant only for Lauretta to hear, Arthur began to speak. 

“I had a professional misunderstanding with my employer recently. It... ended with my contract being revoked.” His gaze became unfocused and turned inward as though he were reimagining the details of that particular phone call and it's distasteful aftereffects. 

Laura furrowed her brows apologetically but remained quiet so as not to disturb his train of thought.

I’ve always been an entertainer at heart. I’m supporting my mother who isn’t entirely well. And I’m working on material, a show, to be a stand-up comedian.” Here, his eyes brightened and became lucid once more. 

“Well, we’ve always got opportunity for roving stand-ups,” Lauretta replied brightly. It was at that moment that their conversation was briefly interrupted by Martha’s knock. The stage manager did not await an answer but saw herself into the office, a tray balanced single-handedly with such skill, it could be deduced that the woman had at some stage in her career served in a waitress’ capacity. She set two bright yellow coffee cups down upon the table with a small plate of biscuits and offered a smile before seeing herself out again to the call of Lauretta’s thanks. Authur mirrored this gratitude as he took his cup in his cold hands and was instantly soothed by its scolding surface. 

“And what was your role at Ha Ha’s exactly?” Laura prompted, helping herself to a biscuit.

“Oh, I was a performing clown!” Arther replied brightly, his eyes shining as he continued, “I performed at promotional events for sales on Maine Street, and I was called on for children’s parties and I even performed in hospitals...on occasion. For children. To… make them smile.” Here, he came to a stalling hold in his speech. He sipped at his cup, dropping his eyes, the light within fading somewhat as he recalled that disastrous and final hospital visitation where his newly acquired pistol had come free of his coat pocket and clattered onto the floor in full view of a ward full of children, parents and nursing staff. The evidence against him unaquitably damning in spite of his entreaty. The overwhelming waves of humiliation that engulfed him amid his frantic, panicked pleas that the weapon was a prop for another act he’d entirely forgotten he had with him did not earn him any remorse nor humility. His performance was instantly terminated and he found himself removed from the premises without hesitation. 

Inwardly, Arthur could only dare hope that word of his indiscretion had not escaped to the outside world, further jeopardizing his already unstable reputation. 

For a moment, he feared looking up into those eyes, feared a mirror of disparagement and rejection that he instinctively braced himself for. 

Such was his surprise when his fears were not realized. Lauretta continued to smile at him warmly, her eyes tender and inwardly thoughtful.

“It’s a noble goal, that of a clown. To smile outwardly to the world whilst within a great turmoil might be hidden by a layer of face paint and a colourful costume.” 

Arthur could not help himself. He smiled over the lip of his coffee cup, contemplating the depth of that comment and its infinite resonance given form in such a simple and direct elocution. 

“Have you ever read of the great Joseph Grimaldi?” Lauretta questioned.

Her guest shook his head regrettably. Arthur had a love/hate relationship with reading. He’d struggled to learn his letters until finally mastering them in the latter years of elementary school. It was then that reading had become a welcome escape from the world around him. Even so, he was at a loss to place the name Lauretta asked of him. She continued patiently.

“Grimaldi was a great Engish actor and comedian in the early eighteen hundreds. He was said to be the master of the modern clown and coined the classic white face paint so unique to a harlequin’s performance. It was recorded that when not in show, Grimaldi struggled with a deep depression. His first wife had died in childbirth, his father was a tyrannical monster and his eldest son, also a gifted clown, drank himself to death by the age of thirty-one. All of this tragedy, Mr. Fleck, and still, he managed to smile.” 

His pulse raced, pounding in his temples. Something, something in the tone of her voice, the look in her eyes. He felt it coming on, crashing, crushing him from all sides. He swallowed thickly, sipping from his cup and following on with a deep drag of his cigarette. He couldn’t trust himself to find his words without them falling haphazardly like so many brightly coloured balls. So he simply nodded, a sting that he ignored sparked in the corner of his eyes, weighing against his waterline. But he would not let it fall. He had to control this, he pleaded with himself to control it. 

Lauretta, feeling the change in the air, was merciful in pressing on. 

“So, you enjoy clowning and laughter. That’s always a good thing. Can you juggle or perform magic?”

“Yes, to both.”

“Hmm, and what of improv, slap-stick? Have you a quick wit? Are you sharp on your feet if you’re heckled? Can you return a jibe with one of your own?” 

“I think so. I’ve gotten better over the years.” 

Lauretta brightened, sitting up straight now, setting down her partially empty coffee cup and flicking her cigarette into the ashtray. This energy seemed to kindle well. She picked up the pace.

“Do you drive, Arthur? How do you transport yourself?”

“No, I take the bus, or the subway mostly.” 

“No matter.,” she returned, flicking her hand dismissively, “do you sing?” 

“ _Every nooow and theeen_.” Arthur crooned sweetly, winking at his hostess. 

“Ooh! A smooth baritone, very nice. Instantly charming! And do you dance?”

“Whenever I can, so long as there’s nothing to trip on.” Enlivened, he tapped his feet restlessly, as though a melody was already making its way through his limbs. He would have risen then and there, taken the woman’s hand and spun her in a graceful pirouette across the worn threadbare rug underfoot. He thought better of it however. Dancing with a possible employer so soon in the game. Probably not the best idea. What if she didn’t dance? 

“Well there, you have much to your credit. A strong foundation. And you mentioned earlier you’re in the midst of writing an act for a stand up performance. How’s it coming on? Have you rehearsed it yet?” Lauretta questioned in anticipation.

“Uh, no, no, not yet. I’m still working on it…” He paused, uncertain of himself. And then, 

“Would you like to hear a joke?”

“Always in need of a good laugh. Go on.” 

“What’s black and white and white and white and black and white again?”

Lauretta chuckled, she’d heard almost twenty years of comedy material. His angle was unpredictable, though he smiled in anticipation, she found herself unable to place where the punchline might fall. Juvenile or adult? There were a dozen answers she could reply with.

“I really have no idea, Arthur. What is black and white and white and black and white again?”

He didn’t miss a beat.

“Why, a penguin rolling down a snowy hill!” 

“Oh, for goodness sake!” Lauretta exclaimed chuckling behind her fingers and turning her head away momentarily before looking back with shining indigo eyes.

“What? You don’t think it’s funny?” 

“On the contrary, it's perfectly charming. I can see why you’d keep the children in stitches.” She made a mental note then and there, that the man’s humor was juvanline and likely heavily censored for a younger audience. 

“Would you like to hear another one?” 

“A thousand of them, and no doubt you have plenty and it would keep me entertained for hours on end. Have you ever visited ‘Pogo’s’ in Midtown? They have open mic nights that are perfect for trying your hand on new material, feeling the room.” 

“I’ve visited a few times after work. I like to listen to the other comedians whenever I can.” Arthur confirmed, smoking down the last of his cigarette and crushing the butt in the ashtray. This wasn’t so bad after all. Why couldn’t all interviews be like this? He was having fun for once.

“A strong work ethic, very admirable indeed. I commend you on your labours.”

“Well, I do what I can.” Arther replied, hopeful.

“I don’t doubt it. Regrettably, the Regale has no current opportunities befitting another performing clown at the present moment.” 

Arthur was crestfallen. The range of emotion showed plainly on his face. His smile vanished. 

Lauretta pressed on,

“That isn’t to say I don’t have need of stagehands and performing stand-ins. If you’re not otherwise engaged, could I ask you start promptly at 9am on Monday morning?”

Well! The shift in the room was instantaneous. A thrill of joy flooded Arther’s chest. All at once, he was beside himself in delight! He shook his head vigorously and began to laugh. A short, sharp burst of chuckles erupted from his mouth in a wheezing fit of merriment. 

“Well, I take it that’s a yes?” He nodded again, frantically. His features contorting in panic. It was happening again. And struggle as he might, he couldn’t control it. 

Quite suddenly, his joy constricted into vulgar dread. His chest tightened and his eyes began to tear. He laughed. A near maniacal barking peel that he struggled to suppress. His brow began to perspire and he covered his mouth frantically. He couldn’t stop himself. Damnit all! He couldn’t stop himself! What would she think of him?

“Arthur?” Lauretta probed quietly, alarmed at the wheezing fit of anguish that clouded his eyes. She tensed visibly as he shook his hand at her but appeared powerless to control the fit as another ringing peel of near squealing barks escaped him.

“Arthur, my goodness, I can imagine your happiness, but this is ridiculous, what on earth has come over you?” 

Again Arthur, panicking, waved at her almost dismissively. As though trying to find his words but clearly unable. His face colouring crimson. He nodded in agreement to her statement and began fumbling in his coat pockets. His cards, please, he had to have his cards. He did pack them, didn’t he? The more he panicked in fear of being misunderstood the sharper and higher the pitch his peels of laughter became. 

“Arthur… what on earth is wrong?” The alarm leaving her face, there was clearly something of a building consternation in her features. She composed herself, worried. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t right at all. Should she call for Martha?

No sooner than the thought occurred, that Arther with some relief, finally produced a small laminated white business card and presented it to the lady whilst his struggled bodily to compose himself.

Lauretta took the card wordlessly and read the black print.

It explained concisely and apologetically that Arthur suffered from a condition that caused uncontrolled fits of laughter and begged that the reader not think badly of him if the episode did not match the mood or feelings of said person. Lauretta nodded, looking up with warm, concerned eyes. Confused and at a loss for how to behave. 

“It’s okay...it’s okay. Just take your time to recover and compose yourself. You stay here a moment, I’m going to pop out and get you a glass of water. I’ll be right back.” She set the card back into his hand and rose, crossing the room on rapid footfalls. Arthur meant to tell her not to worry. He coughed out a ‘please’, but the lady had already left shutting the door quietly behind her, leaving the rattled Arthur to ride through the last of his strained laughter. Angry at himself. Of all times, why now? Why did this have to happen now?

Outside the office, Lauretta was met with Martha and the seamstress in the ladies’ dressing room where she rushed to fill a glass of water. 

“Everything alright in there? It sounds like a pack of hyenas with their tails on fire!” Martha exclaimed, her hands full with a bustle skirt.

“Oh, yes, it couldn’t be better. I’ve just on-boarded Mr. Fleck and he seems a little over-excited by the opportunity.” Martha might have asked another question but Lauretta rushed away with her water glass leaving the stage manager and her seamstress to wonder about the affairs that were taking place. 

Less than a minute later, Lauretta returned to the office where a stricken, but very much recovered Arthur Fleck sat looking forlorn, uncomfortable and extremely apologetic. The theatre director shut the office door behind her and resumed her seat beside her guest, setting the glass in front of him that he took gratefully and drank from in shaking gulps. His eyes were distinctly bloodshot and his cheeks tear-stained in embarrassed shame. Cooing soothingly, Lauretta produced a small sky blue handkerchief from her trouser pocket and without a second’s forethought, came forward on the lounge to wipe away at the tears that trailed Arther’s cheek. 

The man reeled, tensing visibly, his eyes skittish, like a frightened animal.

“Shh, there now, its alright. No harm will come to you here my good man. You rest easy a moment and when you have your breath back we’ll talk.” Enchanted and set aback, Arthur reached to take hold the handkerchief and found his warm fingers brushing against hers. The contact was brief, a mere string of heartbeats, but Lauretta did not pull away. Rather, she remained close, watching the man’s eyes as he became lucid and murmured his apologies. So strong was his impulse to simply recline his face against her tender caress. She pulled away slowly, however, leaving him holding her handkerchief against his cheek a moment. He wiped at his eyes and slowly found his voice.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Don’t apologise for circumstances clearly out of your control. Think nothing of it. Are you feeling alright? Is there anything I can do to ease you?” 

By God, this was something else. He sat, bewildered and grateful. The look of concern in her eyes was genuine and the warmth she’d held all this time did not leave her expression. 

“No, no thank you, I’m alright, really. It just happens every now and then.”

“I see. My goodness, how unique. You had me rather taken aback there for a moment. Have you had this condition long?” 

“Oh, yeah. All my life, or at least, as long as I can remember. It seemed to get worse as I got older. My doctors haven’t really found a cure.” Arthur responded, draining his glass of water and setting it down upon the table. Lauretta merely nodded to this admission in silent contemplation before replying,

“A cure...for laughter….. My word, that is a unique thought now isn’t it? Can you imagine that? A world where laughter was considered an ailment instead of a release?”

For the next half hour, Lauretta and Arthur conversed quietly amongst themselves. The theatre director asked a great many questions of the performing clown. All of which he answered honestly, warmly. Apologetic and earnest. They shared another smoke and in the span of that morning, came to a sincere understanding with one another. Lauretta did not revoke her offer of employment, rather she explained the capacity in which she would charge Arthur with simple duties in the first week, giving him the opportunity to shadow the theatre staff and gain some new skills, bolster his confidence and work out his papers. 

At the conclusion of the interview, she invited Arthur to stay on for the technical rehearsal of the musical that was due to open in two weeks time. 

Arthur thanked her graciously and took a seat in the dress circle upstairs, overlooking the stage. He’d never been able to afford theatre tickets to a place this majestic. The seats wore plush red upholstery and the stage and walls were framed in 40s art deco luxury with gilded mouldings and bronze statues that held massive white globes. The stage was framed by an elegant royal purple curtain with shimmering gold fringing and the high ceilings gave the illusion of space. Arthur counted at least two hundred seats below him. 

For hours he watched as the actors came and left the stage, singing and speaking passages accompanied by a pianist. Lights were tested and costumes were worn in various states. The show stopped and started multiple times as the performance director, a tall thin fellow with a sharp voice, called directions and blocking stances cross the stage to staff that skittered to and fro. 

It was almost sunset by the time Arthur left the stage door through which he entered earlier that morning. His head a cacophony of thoughts and feelings, music and laughter. He’d have so much to tell his mother when he got home. 

He boarded the bus back to 42nd Street but was forced to stand in the cramped aisle. The bus was full of tired-looking business people returning home from their offices. They occupied the seats well before he’d boarded. 

It was then that Arthur realized, through it all, that he’d never once let go of Lauretta’s handkerchief.


	3. Three.




	4. Four.

Three months, two weeks and four days.

Arthur had been keeping a log of the passing time in the staff sign-in book where he was taught to autograph his name and the date for every morning as he clocked in and every evening before clocking out. The theatre director, the enigmatic and somewhat eccentric Lauretta Styl proved to be a regimented woman who ran her staff both cast and crew strictly, but fairly. With the exception of the performance personnel, theatre crew were worked on a two-week rotating roster over a nine-hour day. Staff began at either 7AM, 9AM or 11AM and worked through to 4PM, 6PM or 8PM respectively. They were afforded an hour’s lunch break, unpaid and two coffee breaks spaced evenly throughout their shifts ensuring the floors were never kept unmanned and always evenly staffed.

Arthur’s first fortnight in the theatre saw him on the 9AM shift and he was mindful to take an early bus into town to avoid being late. The weekend leading up his first Monday on duty found him to be a veritable ball of kinetic excitement. He could hardly sit still his anticipation was so great. That evening after the interview, found him bolting home on jubilant footfalls. A new sense of purpose filled him. Opportunity did wonders for a man’s self-confidence. Divesting himself of keys and coat, he called for his mother who was reading in the warm lamplight of the living room. She fixed her son with a cursory glance and nodded approvingly. He furnished her with every detail he could recall, bustling into the kitchen, intent on cooking a celebratory dinner. He’d make pasta sauce from scratch tonight!

“This is why I named you, Happy.” Penny murmured fondly as she sat upon a stool at their kitchen counter drinking sweet, hot tea and watching her son chop onions and sing to himself contentedly.

“Are they going to pay your better at this new job?”

“I dunno, Ma. It’s not right to ask about money during the interview. I’m sure it’ll be okay. We’ve always gotten by before even when things were tight. You should see this place, Ma, really. They have these beautiful purple curtains and gold fittings on the ceilings. They’re so high! You’d strain your neck looking up. And the stage is beautiful. The lady who runs the place, Lauretta, she said one day I might be able to perform on it, with my comedy act.”

“You’ll have to write some better jokes then. Something funny.” Penny replied absently. A shockingly loud clatter jolted her abruptly upright. Her son dropped the cooking knife he was handling to the sink.

“Jesus, Happy, do you have to be so clumsy? And loud? And did you check the letterbox on your way up? I’m waiting for a letter.”

“They are funny.” Arthur murmured indistinctly beneath his breath. His voice quiet and his gaze unfocused upon the middle-distance. His elation deflating as suddenly as it had swelled. Penny’s ears were sharp though.

“What?”

“I said no, Ma. There weren’t any letters today. There never is.”

“Oh… Well, I’m going to watch some television for a while, leave you to cook in peace.”

He waited for a few moments. Listening to the shuffling slippered foot-falls of his mother as she groaned, rising from her seat and padding away.

Through the kitchen window and across the street, Arthur’s sight fell upon his neighbour’s drab, old brick building. His kitchen window regrettably afforded a view of the neighbour’s living room on occasion when the curtains weren’t drawn.

The tenants were never of any interest to him directly. There was something impolite about looking into their living room. For his sake as much as theirs he sought to avert his gaze or draw the kitchen curtains whilst he cooked.

What drew his attention on this night was their great ginger tomcat with white paws and striking yellow eyes. The animal wore a red collar with a tiny silver bell around its neck and perched regally atop the window sill, watching him. Seemingly never moving. He’d lept upon the peeling sill at some point during the conversation with his mother and proceeded to lick at his left paw watching Arthur with feline interest all the while. He wondered at the cat’s name. 

Come Monday morning, Arthur made sure he was at the stage door early. Martha answered his knock and offered him a polite compliment over his neat attire for which he was grateful. He’d spent the night before agonizing over the state of his wardrobe, ensuring his shirt was ironed and his shoes were polished. He wished he had a better bag rather than his worn brown leather satchel. It would do, however. He made certain he had copies of his resume and ID in his wallet. Money was tight this week, he’d have to eat when he got home. Just as well, he couldn’t stomach anything right now. He was far too nervous. 

“Pleased to have you, dear. Follow me to the break room. There are lockers where you can put your belongings and the coffee and tea are complimentary. You can help yourself before your shift starts. We take turns bringing in fresh milk. I’ll mark your name on the roster pinned to the fridge door. Mind you don’t forget it when it’s your turn hmm?” Martha began briskly as she lead Arthur around the box office, up a stairwell, into a corridor and out into a large and airy breakout room with unfurnished windows that looked down into the bustling city below. The stage manager checked her watch and continued.

“Now, be mindful of the time. Laura’s called a meeting downstairs in front of the stage at 9am sharp. Take care you’re not late. She’s very particular about punctuality and famous for keeping us honest about it. I expect she’ll be wanting to introduce you to your crewmates formally and assign you some duties, you follow?”

Arthur nodded his head yes. He’d been listening intently as he followed Martha and her rapid footsteps to a row of tidy grey and white lockers that were set against the wall on the opposite end of the room. To Arthur’s surprise, number 11 had been assigned to him, his name written neatly upon a white label in black marker pressed upon the locker door. 

“This one’s for you, Arthur. You’ll need to bring your own padlock but I’ll loan you this one for today.” Said Martha producing a small mail lock and its key from her jacket pocket. Arthur took the lock in hand, nodding his thanks. Martha continued her preamble intently,

“Now, if you bring your lunch, make sure you label it clearly when you put it in the fridge, food will mysteriously disappear otherwise. And where possible, don’t keep clothes or shoes in your locker over the weekend. Take them home to be aired and laundered save you copping unwanted flack.” 

“Sure. I mean, of course, Mrs?”

“Martha, is perfectly alright, dear. You’ll find most staff will tolerate a first name. But be mindful, some of the actors are sensitive whilst performing or rehearsing. It’s best to keep out of their way. And for heaven’s sake don’t let yourself be caught near the women’s dressing rooms unless you’re expressly asked or you’ll catch hell for it, clear?”

“Crystal clear, Martha. Thank you. For everything, really.” Replied Arthur quietly. His gratitude welling in his eyes. He offered a docile, slightly lop-sided smile.

“Well, see if you make it through the first fortnight before giving me any thanks. Stage front in fifteen dear, yes? Ciao for now.”

And just so, Martha bustled away on brisk footfalls, adjusting a pen in her tightly rolled bun, leaving Arthur to his own devices in the empty break room. A number of round timber tables and chairs waited quietly giving the room the impression of an unoccupied café.

With little left to do, Arthur set about putting his satchel away in his new locker, helping himself to some instant coffee and lighting up another cigarette to pass the time. Once the clock above the door read five to nine, he was quick to leave the large breakroom behind, retracting his steps downstairs until he came to the open theatre doors where a congregation of some fifteen people were standing at the foot of the stage.

Martha was among them, speaking hurriedly with Lauretta who seemed to acknowledge what was being said and taking notes on a clipboard.

Oh, she was splendid today. Dressed in fitted, black high-waisted slacks and a peach blouse. Her sleeves rolled back and her hair gathered in a French braid. Around her stood an array of staff dressed in various states of uniformed workwear. Arthur gathered his wits and strode in what he hoped was a confident fashion to Lauretta’s shoulder.

She turned, fixing him with a dazzling smile.

“And here he is. Alright, everyone!” The theatre director clapped her hands sharply, the crowd quieted and listened.

“For months now you’ve told me this production has taken a toll on each of you. I thank you for patience. As it stands, I’d like to introduce you all to our latest crew member, progressive comedian and practised harlequin, formally of Ha Ha’s Entertainment, Mr. Arthur Fleck.”

All at once, a dozen smiling faces broke into hoots and hollers. A round of applause was had and Arthur offered a heartfelt smile. A little shy beneath the heat of so much fresh attention. He raised his hand meekly, waving his hello.

“Hey, welcome aboard buddy!” Called a particularly sharp-dressed young man. African American, lanky of limb and distinctly possessing the style of a pop-star.

“You’re gonna love it here. Hey, you wanna see your future? Look at that guy over there. That’s Greg, he’s what we all gotta look forward to lookin’ like, even the ladies, yeaooow!” 

This seemed to draw laughs from the gathering, even from the unfortunate Greg who was weighty, balding and sucking on a partially lit Cuban cigar. He waved off the sly remark with good humour.

“Enough from you Freddie, you’ll give Arthur the wrong impression.” Lauretta corrected playfully before continuing.

“Now, Arthur will join us as a stagehand over the next two weeks, shadowing Freddie and Fay respectively. I ask you all mind your manners and be patient whilst he learns the ropes. Stagecraft takes time to come into, but if we can work collaboratively we’ll find opening week to our musical runs a great deal smoother.”

The next twenty minutes were spent exchanging handshakes whilst Lauretta introduced Arthur to each of the theatre staff individually. Freddie was finally introduced as the theatre manager, holder of all the keys. Whilst Fay, a sharp-eyed, pretty brunette advised she was the stage assistant and understudy to Martha.

“Together, we’re your ‘A’ team, my man. Get ready, because we’re gonna work you to the bone.” Freddie began, shaking Arthur’s hand with a dazzling smile. Arthur could not help but feel this young man reminded him strongly of the musician, Prince. He moved with musical grace and had a habit of adding a “yeeoow” to the end of his sentences when making a humorous quip.

“Don’t let him scare you off, Arthur, can we call you Art, or Artie? And what size shirt do you wear? We’ll have to work out some uniform shirts for you now that you’re part of the crew.” Fay announced, gesturing for Freddie to give them some space. Arthur could not help but smile radiantly. His other employers and colleagues were never so welcoming.

“Artie is fine,” He replied finally, “and I wear a medium dress shirt if that helps any.”

Fay made a note in her logbook signalling a thumbs up as Lauretta once again clapped sharply and drew the attention of her team. For the next few minutes, she took feedback about the state of the up-coming production, making notes and giving a great deal many directions. Arthur stood by, smiling and noting how pretty her small drop pearl earrings were and the way the rest of the team seemed content if not a little stressed. She addressed each problem and complaint individually and earnestly. The team seemed at their ease around her. In time the crew dispersed to their individual tasks in groups of twos and threes.

“Freddie, I’m going to borrow Arthur a minute. I’ll send him backstage with you shortly.”

“You got it, boss lady!” Freddie exclaimed, turning smoothly and strutting away in time with a melody in his head.

The theatre crew finally out of ear-shot, Lauretta turned to Arthur with her characteristic warm smile.

“So, how are we holding up, so far? All good?”

“Oh, yeah! I haven’t done anything for you yet. I’ll work very hard though.” Arthur replied sincerely.

“It’s not about working hard so much as it is about working smart. Relying on your teammates to support you and more than anything, not taking anything personally. You’ll see staff lose their temper more than once and sometimes it may appear directed toward you. It shouldn’t be. But if it is, remember, you’re in your rights to just shake it off and move onto the next task. We’re something of a family here, Arthur. Working a forty-hour week means you’ll spend more time with us than you will your own flesh and blood. It’s important that you’re at your ease, even when you’re not. No matter what state you’re in or how busy we all look, I am here to listen to you.”

This sentiment seemed to bring some profound change to Arthur’s features. His smile slipped and his eyes began to sting. He looked away a moment, fumbling for his cigarettes as he whispered,

“Thank you. Really.”

“Of course.” She replied, reaching out her hand to caress his arm gently. Arthur’s smile returned, he lit up, breathed in deeply and exhaled sharply.

“Now, Arthur, I hope you don’t think this too forward of me, but, about your condition. I was giving it some thought over the weekend and I wanted to get your impression. Would you prefer I have a quiet word with the staff just to alert them or would you rather speak to them of your own accord during the breaks and such? What would make you most comfortable?”

Arthur coughed sharply, his eyes widening in disbelief.

“Oh, please, I’m sorry, I hope you don’t think I’m being rude?” Lauretta continued, concerned she’d said something off-key.

“No, no, not at all. I just got on with my cards in the past. I prefer to not draw attention to it if that’s okay with you, ma’am?” Arthur responded quietly.

“Of course, by all means. I just thought, if everyone was on the same page from the get-go, it would make it easier for you. If people know what to expect.” Arthur’s eyes seemed to harden as he nodded, taking another pull of his cigarette and blowing the smoke sharply out of the corner of his mouth. Lauretta couldn’t help but feel she’d somehow overstepped herself.

“We just want you to feel comfortable, that’s all. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to find me. I’m almost always upstairs in the office. Have a great day ahead Arthur, I’ll see you at lunch.”

“Thank you, Lauretta. I appreciate it.” Arthur returned.

“Laura’s fine.”

“Laura then.” Answered Arthur with a smile.

The remainder of the day seemed to fly. Arthur diligently shadowed Freddie with a myriad of tasks. He was given a new pen, notebook and clipboard where he scribbled a range of instructions as he was toured around the theatre. After morning coffee break, Fay rushed to find him before he left the break room with a new walkie-talkie and a microphone headset in hand.

“Here you go honey, you’re on channel eighteen with stagehands. Push this button to call all crew and flick this switch to mute your mic. Try keep radio noise to a minimum during rehearsals. Actors lose their shit when they’re in the zone.” She punctuated the last word by gesturing inverted commas into the air, earning a laugh from Arthur who stifled himself by coughing. He wasn’t about to risk an attack in front of everyone in on his first day. He’d control this. He had to. Instead, he thanked her and clipped the walkie-talkie to his belt whilst Fay rushed off taking an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter on her way out.

The evening came too soon. Arthur’s head was swimming with instructions. He’d managed to make notes of his latest directions and did a great deal of shifting, pushing and carrying of stage equipment on Freddie’s direction. The two men seemed to get on well and Freddie showed a sincere interest in asking a great deal many questions about Arthur’s personal interests that he took great pleasure in answering. Arthur was relieved to come to the end of the day. He’d found a friend in Freddie and Fay and looked forward to telling his mother all about it.

Come six o’clock, Lauretta found her way to the break room where she shook hands with the staff preparing to leave for the day, wishing them all the best and thanking them for their hard work. The same courtesy was applied to Arthur whom she lingered near a moment, whilst he made to take his satchel from his locker.

“Thank you, Arthur, for all your hard work today. I know there’s an awful lot to take in so quickly but your crewmates have nothing but praise for you. I’m thankful to have you on our team.”

“I’m grateful to be given the chance, honestly. It’s been a pleasure today. Are my papers okay?” Arthur replied with a questioning smile.

“Yes, they’re well in order. You can expect to pick up your first pay-cheque from my office next week. Now, go home and get some rest. Let’s see you back on deck bright and early tomorrow. Fay will have arranged some new crew shirts for you by the time you arrive.”

This was his chance. Arthur stepped forward,

“Laura, before I go, could you hold this for me?” He produced from his pocket an oversized matchbox and handed it to the director. She took it slowly with some trepidation.

“Arthur, this is not one of those prank boxes where if I open it I’ll be hit in the face with something, will I?”

“Haha! No, nothing like that, open it, go on.” Arthur urged, his eyes shining intently.

“Uh, okay.” Deft slender fingers gently pushed the large matchbox open to reveal within its depths a tiny pink rosebud.

“Oh how pretty!” She exclaimed lifting the flower gently and holding it to the light. Arthur furrowed his brows and clicked his tongue in exaggerated annoyance.

“Tsk, that’s not right at all. These boxes can be so unpredictable. Are you sure there’s nothing else in there?”

Perplexed, Lauretta opened out the matchbox fully affirming to Arthur that it was indeed empty

“May I?” He asked gently, taking the little rosebud from the lady’s fingers and shutting it back into the confines of the matchbox.

“Now, maybe if you blow on it, like a birthday candle?” Enchanted, Lauretta played along taking the box back into her waiting hands and blowing against it gently.

“Now try.” Arthur prompted. Nodding, the theatre director slid the matchbox open for a second time gasping with childlike surprise when within, where the tiny rosebud once lay was her light blue handkerchief folded into a neat little square. With a gasp, she lifted the cloth free of the matchbox looking up with stunned joy. The little rosebud was nowhere to be seen.

“Arthur! That’s remarkable! What a charming trick!” She gasped exuberantly.

“I’m glad you like it.” He breathed, deeply relieved and gently taking the box from her hand.

“Really Arthur, give yourself a little time to settle into your new role, then we’re going to have to talk about organizing some sort of showtime on the side for you. How does that sound?”

“Oh! Wonderful, truly! Thank you!” Arthur exclaimed brightly. 

He left work that day and took the bus home in high spirits. He may have had little to offer, but his determination to succeed was great. He was tired now. Tired from a day’s solid physical and mental labour. He hoped to shower and maybe eat something. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so hard to sleep tonight. He began to plan his next visit to Pogo’s that weekend on the bus ride home. He still wasn’t able to get a seat. But it didn’t matter so much now. He’d have a lot to tell his mother when he got home.

He’d made Lauretta smile. 


	5. Five.




	6. Six.

Time is flux.

The days rolled into weeks, leaving behind October and greeting November with sharply declining temperatures. Gotham woke every morning to frigid, cutting winds and frozen sidewalks. The radios, televisions and newspapers continued to bemoan the state of Gotham’s garbage crisis as the sanitation strikes rolled into their second consecutive month.

Meanwhile, Thomas Wayne began his campaign for city mayor beseeching the people to hold steady for the future. It seemed his speeches were poorly received by the underclasses who began to protest boisterously in the streets. ‘ _We are all clowns._ ’ Their bitter demonstration posters read. Such was the way of the wealthy. So disconnected from their workforces it appeared they weren’t listening to the people they hoped to govern at all. Even a man whose best intentions were on display was not immune to media misinterpretation. Misconstrued messages manipulated out of context.

Arthur was reminded sharply of how little attention people paid one another in this city. Everyone walked with a weight on their shoulders. Slightly hunched against the wind and rain. No one seemed to smile anymore. Not even the children as they walked holding their parents’ hands, tearful at the school gates. Fearful of a world outside the comfort and routine of their private homes. It was rough out there. They’d learn soon enough. They’d grow up like everyone else. Without a smile.

His latest visitation with his psychologist had not gone well.

“Arthur, I have some bad news for you.” He braced himself. When the blow finally came, the realization that the public health system would now be closed to him and his medication paid for at a premium that he clearly would be unable to sustain – it was like a wave had struck him in the face, tearing the air out of his lungs all at once. He’d been taking his medication for so long now. How would he function without it?

Meanwhile, the Regale Theatre had opened to a full house. The musical production had performed without a hitch as a dozen or more stagehands, Arthur included, ran a series of fast-paced checks ensuring audio, set and lighting were beyond reproach. There were reviewers for Gotham Times in the audience and Lauretta was not about to take any chances. Tensions ran high and Arthur found himself in the unfortunate position of having to defend his work more than once.

Early in the season, he found himself party to an unwanted argument. He’d argued with Fay bitterly and broke into an agitated fit of laughter that resulted in the aspiring comedian taking a hard slap to the face. Fay had stormed away, bursting into angry tears and refusing to return to work for two whole days after. Arthur wasn’t even given a chance to explain himself. Even Freddie who witnessed the disagreement had come to Fay’s defence.

“Jeeeesus, Mary and Joseph, Artie! Where’d they teach you to be such an asshole? You done deserved that slap boy! Look at ‘chu. Still laughin’? Whatcha being such a jerk for, huh?”

His disappointment purely crushing. It felt as though ice water was being pumped directly into his bowels. Sick to the stomach but unable to control the cackling peels of rib shaking laughter that plagued him. He reached into his trouser pocket and simply placed his apologetic card upon the closest table in the break room, ensuring all eyes were on him, before turning on his heel and marching away. They’d work it out themselves. He’d answer questions later if in fact he was asked any ever again. The atmosphere always seemed to change when people witnessed the otherwise docile comedian decompile into a fit of painful, choked, near sobbing laughs.

Agitated, revolted, Arthur continued his duties, attending the male dressing rooms as was his routine instruction. The play costumes had returned from the dry cleaners and it was his duty to ensure each one was returned to the correct rack in performance order before the actors returned for the evening show. No sooner had he entered the empty dressing room with its light framed mirrors that his aggression swirled and bubbled forward.

His painful laughing fit had passed but his surging hostility was uncontrollable as the scene replayed its self in his mind’s eye. He stalked the empty dressing room, furious, humiliated, hurting. Why was he always the fuck up? Why could he never find the words to defend himself when he needed them? He’d tried to explain but even so, Freddie seemed in no mood to hear excuses. And he knew he only had himself to blame. If he only rang Fay through their walkie-talkies sooner this whole mess might have been avoided. Everyone was simply trying to do their job.

He hadn’t meant to upset Fay.

It happened when Freddie had told him to move a heavy road case out of the way and into the orchestra pit. Freddie hadn’t seen or known about the microphone cables gaffed to the ground connecting to the expensive master PA amplifier rack that outputted audio for the entire theatre. Arthur knew Fay was working on settling the orchestra pit. He’d meant to tell Fay not to attempt to move the road case until the sound engineer gave him the all-clear to take it out into the loading bay. There was nowhere else to move the road case until then.

It had all gone terribly wrong. 

Arthur had turned his back for just a moment to take some cables out of the way. It was then that he heard Fay being abused by the conductor for having unsightly equipment intruding upon his workspace. Irritated, Fay muttered a curse and rolled the case out of the pit crushing and tearing the audio cables underfoot in two.

A disaster!

Showtime was less than two hours away and this costly mistake meant the audio team would have to frantically rig new cables to amplify the show throughout the theatre.

The blame game ensued. Freddie had argued with Fay, Fay exploded at him and they both erupted at Arthur for failing to communicate properly.

“Christ, Arthur, this fuck up is entirely your fault! When Lauretta hears about this she’s gonna rip us all a new one!” Freddie had snapped angrily.

“She won’t if you just let me explain-“

“What?! How you cost her a sold out fuckin’ show? What’s the point of a fuckin’ musical if half the people in the theatre can’t hear the fuckin’ music- eh!?” Freddie snapped, cutting Arthur off mid-sentence.

Defeated, Arthur chose to walk away. A barking cough erupted from his belly, smashing through his ribcage in a crippling peel of breath-stealing laughter that he fought to choke back. His eyes stinging, his insides burning for air. And there he found himself now, in the empty dressing room. His pain soaked eyes and contorted reflection looking back at him pitifully from the illuminated mirror. His rage overtook him. A chair was in his hand and hurtled across the room, impacting upon the mirror and shattering it into hundreds of out-blown shards with a stunning explosion of glass and noise.

He watched the wrecked glass as it lay cracked and hanging haphazardly from its frame with numb composure. He hated that man in the mirror. Hated feeling this empty sense of disconnected futility that followed the encompassing wave of crushing anger.

The cacophony had jolted nearby staff into action. Footfalls rushing across the floor. The seamstress surged through the dressing room door with Greg and two other crew members at her heels to find Arthur searing in fury. His hands shaking violently. His eyes bloodshot as he stood in partial darkness amidst the ruins of shattered mirror glass and detonated light bulbs.

That evening had not gone well.

Lauretta had heard about the argument and phoned Fay entreating her to return to the theatre. The younger woman refused in a fit of tears, humiliated at being laughed at by Arthur and belittled by the conductor. It took the theatre director the better part of twenty minutes to calm her down and explain Arthur’s unfortunate condition.

“Fuck, Laura! Why’d you have to go hire such a freak?!” Fay cried.

The words stung. Lauretta may have had personal reservations about certain members of her staff, but her rigid British upbringing prevented her from voicing them in a professional capacity. Instead, she opted for neutrality.

“C’mon now, Fay, give him a break.” She soothed, “He didn’t mean it. This whole episode is a great misunderstanding. I’m sure Arthur would apologize if you gave him half a chance. He’s harmless, honest. A little peculiar perhaps, but deserving of an even go, like anyone else.”

“How could you just defend him like that? He humiliated me in front of everyone!” Fay wept bitterly, throwing herself onto her sofa cushions and kicking her shoes across the room.

“If I don’t, who else will? Now, you take the next two days off if you must but I expect you back for Friday night’s performance. I’ll have you, Arthur and Freddie, in my office before then. We’ll talk this out. Goodnight, Fay.”

No sooner did she hang up the phone than she sent for Martha to fetch Freddie and Arthur. The two men were marched into her office and door closed behind them. For the first time in weeks, Lauretta sat behind her desk, lit a cigarette and quietly demanded the men explain exactly what had happened.

They left her office an hour later, their heads hanging significantly lower.

The broken mirror and light globes would come out of Arthur’s wages and both men received a formal warning for misconduct. They would be made to apologize to Fay personally upon her return. Arthur’s affliction had been ousted. The theatre was relatively quiet for the rest of the night. The crew spoke in clipped hushed whispers to one another. No jokes were cracked over the walkie-talkies and the only noise to be had were the claps and cheers of the audience as the performance went ahead whilst the crew sweated and swore under their breaths.

Sombre and muted, the crew could not wait for the audience to empty the theatre. Shut down was as fast and efficient as ever. Staff attended their lockers and wished each other a goodnight whilst Arthur distanced himself as early as was prudent.

Without realizing it, he’d found himself hovering about the foot of the stairs that led up to Lauretta’s office.

She was up there, writing her reports and calculating her losses. She was almost always the last one to leave the theatre at night and the first to open the doors of a morning.

That meeting was the first time in two months of employment that he’d seen the warmth in her eyes fade. Her features become hard and her words cold. She was furious in the way a quiet storm might exact its wrath upon the earth, under an incessant torrent of heavy rain. So different to the shouting and yelling of his previous bosses. Arthur struggled to make sense of his feelings until he decided, this treatment was worse.

So much worse.

****

In spite of this disastrous episode, come Boxing Day, Lauretta had kept her promise and allowed Arthur the opportunity to perform as a roving entertainer for the Boxing Day Theatre Gala held at the Gotham Centre for Performing Arts. A lavish party that featured the board of directors for the theatre whom Lauretta panelled with were present. With them came a whole host of actors, writers, directors, stagecraft students, their families, friends, members of the media and general public. The gala highlighted excellent opportunities for students of performing arts to meet an array of teachers to discuss the following year’s courses and training programs. A busy and lively party of which Arthur was invited to entrain for two sets.

His first set would commence shortly after the opening speeches. The auditorium was outfitted with three small elevated round stages that highlighted talented performers, Arthur occupied one and was splendid in his costume. The theatre seamstress, Italian woman, Paola Midici took inspiration from the 18th-century Italian comedy. When asked to fashion Arthur a great costume for his gala performance, she spent a great deal of time looking into his eyes.

“Are you happy, Arthur?” She had asked, deliberately and without preamble. Italian accent heavy still.

“What does that have to do with-“

“It was a simple question, young man.” Paola interrupted briskly. “Are you happy?”

“I suppose-“

Paola cleared her throat sharply, cutting off the aspiring comedian yet again.

“Not really, no.” He found himself admitting quietly. It was strange to say the words out loud, to a stranger no less.

To this admission, Paola nodded her head approvingly.

“It’s in the eyes, dear boy. Always in the eyes. Now stand still, let me take your measure.”

Now Arthur stood upon his elevated stage, in his element as a crowd gathered around him to watch as he performed classic mime, juggling and magic tricks in silence. He wore a magnificent costume styled in the fashion of the classic historic clown, Perriot. His puff-sleeved shirt, waistcoat and trousers divided evenly in an array of black and white large satin diamonds. His buttons a deep, wine red. An Elizabethan ruff made of lace and tulle adorned his neck. On his head rested the tri-horned hat of a royal court jester. Spectacular, like a crown in black and white, adorned with red and silver bells that jingled musically for every time he moved his head.

His face, however, was of spectacular contrast. In delicate black and white greasepaint the left half of his face was painted in a great upturned smile, the right, however, pulled down low in a miserable frown. Neither comedy nor tragedy. But a vision of both painted in homage to the theatre he now served.

His audience was intrigued, pointing and clapping at his jubilant gestures and exaggerated dancing. He made flowers appear from under his hat and brightly coloured silk scarves were handed to a passing lady who had the good grace to laugh when she found they were tied together from his pocket in a seemingly endless string. A blue rose tied to the last one. Around her, the gathering clapped and cheered. Arthur, court jester as he now fashioned himself, bowed smoothly and pointed to his cheek, wordlessly requesting a kiss. Embarrassed, the lady shuffled on heels, hesitating. Arthur frowned deeply, hanging limp and sad. The audience broke into an exaggerated cry of: “Awwwwwww!”

Pinched by the pressure, the lady thought better of her station and came forward bravely, pecking Arthur upon the cheek. Joy! He straightened and clapped happily, a merry jingle of his belled cap. The gathered crowd cheered and clapped. A far better outcome!

The lady curtsied and darted away to her giggling friends whilst Arthur bowed deeply. His performance a success. The set was complete. He bounded off the stage and made for the cluster of other performers milling about behind a red roped area reserved for theatre staff beside the bar.

“Arthur!”

Upon hearing his name he turned to find Lauretta dressed in a beautifully fitted black evening gown that trailed to the floor. Her hair gathered in an artful array of curls. Her lips the most striking shade of red that contrasted sharply with the blue of her eyes. She was stunning to behold. And smiling. At him.

Arthur removed his hat slowly, running his fingers through his hair. He strode forward and offered his hand that the director took, watching warmly as he kissed her knuckles just as he’d witnessed so many gentlemen do in those old black and white films from Pinewood Studios, London.

“Arthur, you were wonderful out there, really!”

“You were watching?”

“Intently. Every sway and trick brought delight to your onlookers. You should be very proud of yourself. You have true beauty in your movements.” Lauretta replied earnestly, fixing him with a tender, appreciative smile.

“Thank you. Really. I-You look lovely tonight.” Arthur offered warmly, taking a step back to admire his employer more completely.

“As do you! Paola really has done magnificently with your costume. And your face paint - the crème-de-la-crème to be sure. Are you enjoying yourself? Not nervous at all?”

“A little, I’m not used to performing in front of this class of society, but I am having a lot of fun. This is incredible, honest, it’s like a dream come true.”

“I’m glad you think so. We’ll see if we can’t establish you in the theatre a little more fully in the new year, you’re doing very well for yourself.” The compliment delivered with all sincerity. She had watched as he mingled with her colleagues, noting the way in which Arthur had not broken down into a fit of nervous laughter.

She’d witnessed a few fits rack the man most painfully in the months of his employment. Notably soon after he had revealed to her in private that his psychologist’s office had now been closed and his access to his medication subsequently revoked.

She worried for him. He continued to function, mindful not to be late on shift and engaged in his work. But there was something about him that wasn’t quite right. She’d made calls here and there until she located an office for social services across town that agreed to assess him with a referral letter from his doctor. There was administrative work to take care of, but if it meant bettering an employee who worked so tirelessly, then she agreed without hesitation. Arthur had first refused her help on principle. Although his position in the theatre did pay a great deal better than his commission performances at Ha Ha’s, he could not yet afford health insurance to cover the cost of private consultations. Lauretta had insisted none the less.

“We can find a way, Arthur. If you need help-“

“I can’t afford to pay you back, and I have to look after my mother.”

“So let me help you both, Arthur. Don’t be stubborn. How do you expect to carry on looking after her if you’re not well enough to care for yourself?”

The matter seemed to be settled. Though he hesitated, there was something in her eyes that drew him. He appeared so displaced and vulnerable. Something inside him ached. Words would not come and instead, he began to weep silently, so starved of affection and human kindness. He would have kissed her then and there, he'd felt so overwhelmed and broken down.

She took him in her arms and Arthur lowered wordlessly into her embrace, breathing in the scent of her rose perfume. A cruel fit of laughter took him, coughing, weeping, and shaking him from within. His ribcage burning. Every ounce of him aware that in his arms he held a woman, honest and pure. Guilt welled in his gut, his fantasies of his neighbour, Sophie, haunted him. He’d followed her to her workplace. Watched as she’d walked her daughter to school and hovered by her front door, meaning to knock but unable to find the courage to let his knuckles rap the timber.

Even so, Lauretta held him through his fit. One hand caressing his back with near motherly affection, the other stroking his hair.

“It’s alright,” She’d whispered gently, sweetly. “Everything’s going to be alright now.”

He wanted to believe it.

****

For many minutes Lauretta and Arthur chatted together amicably. She offered him a glass of champagne that he took graciously admitting he’d never tried the drink before. The possibility thrilled him as he clinked glasses with Lauretta proudly before taking a sip …and immediately wrinkling his nose in disapproval.

“It’s not for everyone.” Lauretta laughed gently, enchanted as she watched his eyes twinkle. The clarity and warmth of his features were not withdrawn by the layers of face paint.

It was then that she saw him standing not more than ten feet away. A handsome gentleman dressed in a fine silk suit of pinstripe navy blue. An elegant burgundy tie at his neck and a glittering diamond tie pin shimmered in the light. He caught her eye and held it with his own deep green gaze as he rose his glass in the air, a salute. Lauretta’s smile vanished setting Arthur off-kilter. He whispered her name,

“Arthur, please excuse me. I’m afraid I’m obliged to have a conversation with a colleague it seems.” Her focus returned to Arthur’s eyes who turned to see who it was that so efficiently erased Lauretta’s smile. A group of students here, a waiter, some ladies smoking over there. It was her hand on his arm that turned his attention back to her lovely features.

“You’re doing extremely well, Arthur, I look forward to seeing your second set in an hour. Mind you travel home safely tonight. I’m sure Fay or Freddie will gladly give you a lift. Excuse me.”

And with that, she was away in a flutter of black fabric and rapid footfalls. He called his good night after her wondering all the while who it was that could upset her tender nature. Arthur lamented her loss as he watched her recede into the crowd.

He’d wanted to ask her to dance.

****


	7. Seven.

The New Year had come and gone in a jubilant celebration across Gotham. It was amazing the difference a few months could make in the scope of a whole life.

If Arthur had been told on January 1st 1981 that before the year was out he would leave behind his struggling clowning at Ha Ha’s to work in a prestigious theatre and be given the opportunity to perform his craft in front of an audience of hundreds - he likely would have either fought the urge to laugh mockingly or cry dejectedly in the face of the messenger.

His residence in the theatre was not without its many trials and challenges. He’d come up against many disagreements with his colleagues. He and Freddie had butted heads more than once. He’d apologized to Fay and stood by as he was questioned on his unique condition. The conversation seemed to bond them together somewhat more closely. They’d shared coffee together after work and given time and understanding, Fay had relented and accepted Arthur’s seemingly good nature. His work ethic was sound if nothing more. He came every day, on time without fail in spite of the weather. There was almost always a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his lips. A smile came to him easily. As did a kind word. He was polite. Held open doors for ladies, shook the hands of the guys. Never looked like he had enough to eat though. She noticed once as he stood in front of his locker, soaked to the skin, caught in the downpour as he got off the bus, the way the lines of his ribs stood out in stark contrast beneath his white cotton singlet. His arms, muscular but so painfully thin. He'd not noticed she was watching him change from behind. Watching as he pulled on his neatly ironed crew shirt, tucking it into place and adjusting his belt. Then pulling a comb through his moist curls.

"Mornin' Artie."

"Oh! Geez, Fay, you startled me! I wasn't expecting anyone to be here." 

She smiled, apologetically. Raindrops dripping from her umbrella to the timber floor underfoot. A ring of shame rose and fell over her heart. As though she had intruded on something private. She had half a mind of turning on her heel and just walking the other way. She could come back to her locker later.

"Sorry," She tried instead. And she meant it, she was sorry to see a man look that... what? _Emaciated_. "It's so early, I didn't think anyone would be here yet either." A heartbeat between them. She wondered if he knew.

"You eh, get caught in that out there?" She continued, walking briskly to the nearest table where she lay down her bags.

"Oh? Yeah, it's awful, isn't it? I didn't bring an umbrella. I was hoping it would hold out until I got in. But, seems like it wasn't so." He replied. Sideways smirk, a twinkle in his eyes.

"You can take mine with you tonight, Artie. I'll be working a double and Freddie usually gives me a lift home when it gets late. I won't need it."

Arthur's smile grew just a little bit brighter.

"Oh, I couldn't do that to you, Fay. Even if it's just getting in and out of the car, you'd get your hair wet."

The young woman laughed. Returning his smile with a bright sincerity, she held out her umbrella.

"C'mon Artie, all the hairspray in the world isn't going to help my hair any under this kinda humidity. You'd be doing me a favour. You can give it back another day." She shook it in front of him, sprinkling droplets against the table. Until at last he reached out and took it from her, gently. His eyes shining. He thanked her warmly, wrapping the black fold-down umbrella in an old plastic bag to gather the errant drops and gently setting it at the foot his locker to take with him later. She was glad he took it. This was as close as she could come to forgive herself for all the bitter things she had said to Lauretta about him behind his back.

That very night she found herself cooking extra at dinner, on purpose. She packed two boxes of beef stew, one for her and one deliberately set aside for Arthur. The sight of his skeletal back had inadvertently popped into her head whilst she cooked, jarring her from within. She'd never seen a man that thin her entire life. It couldn't be natural. If anorexia had a form, his was surely it. And so the next morning when they met in the break room before their shift, she set the lunchbox down in front of him. Disturbing his concentration whilst he smoked, drank coffee and read the paper.

"Artie, you gotta do me a favour and help me eat the rest of this beef stew. My mom's recipe was enough to feed six so I kinda overdid it. It'd be a waste to throw it out. Help me eat the evidence for lunch?" Bright smile. She hoped it was believable.

"Oh! Uh, wow! You didn't have to go through all this trouble, Fay!"

"Really! It's no trouble at all. I picked up some fresh bread rolls at the bakery this morning. We can heat them up in the microwave and eat them buttered with the stew. We can eat together if you like?"

He sat still a moment, locked within the reflection of her warm gaze. He couldn't help but notice she was dark under the eyes.

Every now and then, these small gestures of human kindness rocked him. Made him feel as though he could almost forget the constant weight in his belly. He set down his cigarette and flashed the young woman what he hoped was his most disarming smile.

"I have a cheese sandwich we can share?"

She smiled and nodded. Warm and bright. Childlike happiness still caressed her features though she was well into her mid-twenties. He couldn't refuse that hopeful expression even if he tried. Gratitude welled up and drowned out the bitterness of their previous professional misunderstandings.

Arthur had come as close to genuinely happy as ever could be afforded in his modest and seemingly overlooked life.

Though he yearned for affection and struggled with surging waves of tumultuous emotions, his fantasies seemed to fill a void that somewhere deep in his heart he refused to give voice to.

Life was changing for Arthur Fleck.

Early one Tuesday evening, having come home from work shortly after four, he sat to write in his notebook. His mother had retired early after dinner, leaving him with the chance to smoke and pen his thoughts, unmolested. Cigarette at the corner of his lip, a knock came at the front door. The clock on the mantle read just after seven. Who could it be?

Arthur answered the door curiously, barefoot in pyjama bottoms and his old rumpled house t-shirt. 

Why, it was the lady that lived in the apartment down the hall. What was her name again? Sophie, yes that’s right. And she had a little daughter, six or seven years old. They had met in the lift a few times and passed each other in the corridor during the weekend.

What did she want?

Oh. To question him it seemed.

He wasn’t as stealthy as he believed himself to be. She had caught on to his distanced following. He felt awful about it on some subsumed level. There was only one thing for it. He’d tell her the truth.

“Did you follow me to work today?” Her tone brooked no argument. Those dark eyes were anything but fearful. 

“Uh.. yeah… sorry.” He admitted sheepishly.

“I was hoping you’d hold the place up.” Unusual request. 

“I have a gun…. I could come by tomorrow?” Arthur offered casually, quirk of his brow. Sharkish smile. 

She smiled right back. And it was radiant and enchanting. He couldn’t help himself. And so he invited her to his comedy show. He’d booked a stand up set at Pogo’s Comedy Club for next Saturday night. He’d have to finish writing his set before then.

She agreed to come by. His invitation casually accepted. He was delighted as he shut the door. Standing there, barefoot, in his pyjama bottoms all but beside himself with glee. He had a date. 

The pistol he’d been toying with, that one given to him by Randall seemed to lose its glamour for tonight. He unloaded the chamber of its bullet.

Remembering the concussive explosion of the hammer as round after round was fired into soft flesh. The stink of human blood. The sheer terror that propelled him as the realization struck; that his was the hand that had robbed human life. And yet, so embittered. So beaten down and misplaced he had been for so long. What did it matter now? There was no room in his heart for remorse. 

And the papers were furious.

The flyman pulled the rope smoothly, shutting the great velvet curtains with their gold fringing on the stage, enshrouding the actors in dim backlighting. They breathed a sigh of relief as they let their limbs drop and rushed away to rest for the twenty minutes the intermission between acts afforded.

“Artie! Artie my man… Do me a favour brother, take this box of broken headsets to the bosses’ office. Tell her we gotta change brands or somethin’. This is the second time this week. We keep losing 'em at this rate we might as well tell the audience to bring ear trumpets!” Freddie exclaimed boisterously as he dropped a case of wireless headsets into Arthur’s waiting arms. The comedian turned away offering a nasal laugh that was more socially reflexive than genuine. He’d been having trouble sleeping this past week and climbing up and down the stairs with heavy equipment past a surge of cast and crew members was the last thing he was in the mood for. His very insides ached. At very least, he’d see Lauretta again. She was always a welcome sight regardless of how tired he felt. Her face filled him with endless gratitude. It was because of her that and he and his mother were eating better.

Arthur diligently made his way up the winding staircase behind the stage and down the corridor with its performance posters tacked to the walls. The further along he got, the more so he became aware of raised voices coming from down the hall. A man’s voice it seemed. One Arthur had not heard before. He was not shouting but certainly speaking with some definitive authority and a heavy Italian accent. And there, Lauretta’s distinct British voice seemed to retort back an impassioned plea.

Curious, Arthur crept close to the door, mindful to keep his footfalls silent across the carpet. Thankfully, there was enough noise from the audience, cast and crew downstairs to blend out the sound of his steps. It wasn’t right to eavesdrop, he knew this intrinsically. But something possessed him to press his ear quietly to Lauretta’s door all the same.

“ - keep telling you Mister Albarti, the theatre cannot support these exorbitant rising costs. You’ve seen the books yourself. I have staff to pay, insurances to look after, equipment to replace-" Lauretta was saying sharply, exasperated it seemed.

“As you say, Signora Styl, but as far as we can see, you’re banking the takings of a full house four nights a week. At forty-five bucks a piece just to sit in the peanut gallery, I’d say your finances are more than sufficient to cover the inflation of prices required for this theatre’s security.” Replied the Italian man in his silken baritone. The edge in his voice was enough to make the hairs on the back of Arthur's neck stand on end. His heart drummed loudly within his chest as comprehension dawned on him. Even so, he swallowed back his terror and listened to Lauretta's retort.

“Haven’t we done enough for you and your family over the years!? Why do you insist on robbing me? Robbing _us_? These are good people working out there, _decent_ people!”

“That’s all well and good, Signora, but it doesn’t detract from the fact that you’ve got protection overheads which should be your top priority. The arrangement does not take kindly to having their accounts being kept in arrears four months in a row. We’re giving you twenty-four hours to bring your books up to date or we can no longer be held responsible if you're met with an _unfortunate_ outcome. I'm sure you understand. Twenty-four hours. Goodnight Signora.”

Cold terror seeped through the matrix of his veins. Arthur bolted away from the door, taking advantage of the few precious seconds he was afforded to take two great steps back down the hall before he became aware of a warm, familiar lamplight flooding out of the now opened doorway. In his haste, the case in his arms slipped from his hands and hit the timber floor in a loud clatter sending a dozen wireless microphone headsets scattering to the ground.

Cursing, Arthur came down to his knees and hurriedly sought to collect the broken equipment, mindful to not lift his head as a pair of expensive leather loafers and the hems of tailored dark dress trousers began stalking their way toward him down the narrow hallway, pausing just inches away from his head.

“You should be more careful. A mistake like that could be costly.” Spoke the Italian man standing over him. A tremor in his hands, his heart hammering against his ribcage, Arthur slowly looked up from the mess on the ground. His eyes running over imported fabric and resting upon the sharp features and polished exterior of the owner’s voice. Vincenzio Albarti looked down upon him with gem green eyes and an upturned brow.

Arthur swallowed thickly before nodding his head. His eyes flicking nervously like a startled deer caught in the crosshairs of a scope.

“Yeah. Sorry.” Was all he managed to reply. Behind Albarti’s shoulder, Lauretta appeared in the office doorway wearing an uncharacteristic scowl across her otherwise delicate features. Her brows knit together, the warmth from her eyes had crystallized and turned cold.

“Arthur?! Hurry up and bring those here!” She snapped, causing Albarti to turn.

“Until tomorrow, Signora Styl.” He said smoothly, tapping his brow in a casual salute before turning back and stepping around Arthur who hurriedly gathered the scattered mics back into his box before rising to his feet and darting toward the theatre director.

“Tomorrow, Mr. Albarti.” She replied, stepping aside and gesturing for Arthur to enter her office before following him and slamming the door loudly behind them. The sudden hushed silence of the office was off-putting.

For many awkward heartbeats, Arthur stood uncertainly in the room's centre, holding his case full of broken headsets and seemingly at a complete loss for what to do with himself. His mind churning over what he had heard. He hiccupped oddly, suppressing the rear of a laugh that he swallowed into the back of his throat. Before him, Lauretta paced back and forward across the worn carpet, unable to meet his eyes, looking strained and entirely preoccupied. As though Arthur's presence had become an afterthought. He was completely forgotten, invisible, like the furniture in the room. A few tense moments passed in this fashion until at last, the veil of anxiety festered in its bitter aftermath and caused Arthur to cough sharply. A vague attempt to clear his throat that didn’t go as planned. Instead, an unwilling, strained laugh escaped him. He bit back upon the inside of his cheek in an attempt to stifle it. The sound, however, was enough to bring Lauretta out of her engrossment. She looked up with red-rimmed eyes, looking tired and much older than her forty-three years.

“Freddie sent me up here, to give you these.” He began quietly, shifting the box in his arms. “He said you might want to consider a different manufacturer. The cast are breaking through them really easily.”

Slowly, Arthur set the case down upon the coffee table, his attention never leaving the director who nodded wordlessly, following his gestures with her eyes but not uttering a sound.

“Laura?” He ventured softly. “Are you okay?”

The question seemed to arrest her. Lauretta stopped pacing and wiped at her brow with the back of her hand, looking vulnerable and visibly shaken. He hadn't known her for very long, but the months he'd committed to her theatre were enough to bring a sense of community and purpose Arthur had not previously experienced. Something within him smouldered hotly as he realized that like his mother, she was a woman he wanted to protect.

“W-who was that guy?” Arthur pressed gently coming forward on quiet footfalls. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, he’s just a colleague. A benefactor for the theatre. Everything’s fine, I’m just tired.” Lauretta replied dismissively forcing a smile that failed to reach her eyes. Lying was not her forte it seemed. She recovered smoothly, however, returning to her desk and seating herself heavily behind its clutter, changing the gears in the conversation as easily as changing the channels of a television.

“I’ll log a fault with the supplier of the headsets in the morning. You can leave these here for now and re-tech the cast at rehearsals tomorrow. We can use the spares in cabinet twelve. Thank you, Arthur, for all your hard work with us. And I wish you well for your performance on Saturday.”

Untangling the knot in his throat and the buzzing in his head took some effort as he watched Lauretta’s features labour under something very forced. Like resignation. And yet, she'd flipped the switch on him so effortlessly, he felt cheated. As though his sincerity had been rebuked without so much as a moment's hesitation. He wasn't ready to be dismissed like this. And so he asked her, his voice soft and musical,

“Laura, you know, I’d really like it if you’d come to the show on Saturday… I mean, if you’re not really busy, if you’ve got the time...” He let the question hang in the air, fixing her with a hopeful gaze.

“Nothing would bring me more joy.” She replied at last. Something, deep in those evergreen eyes with their shifting hues and shadows of sadness arrested her. How could she refuse him? 

Something ached within Arthur as he left her office that night. Though he could not place it, he remembered on the bus ride home, every time Lauretta had smiled at him, spoken to him kindly. For every time she’d made him feel appreciated and how she stayed on to sit beside him quietly whilst a fit of tumultuous, painful laughter racked him.

He could have almost sworn he saw the last light fade from her eyes as he closed the door.


	8. Eight.




	9. Nine.

The following morning seemed oppressively gray. The clouds hung low and black in the sky, threatening rain that would not come.

Arthur had sat at his customary table by the window in the theatre break room quietly smoking and scribbling half-remembered ideas onto a fresh page in his notebook. He heard them coming, in the distance. Like a dream.

Heavy footfalls. The feel of balled fists striking his face and belly. Their impact sending a convulsion of white-hot pain searing through muscle and sinew. Disorientating his focus. His vision blurring dangerously and with its wavering came a high-pitched ringing in his ears, like static on a television screen once a channel had completed their broadcast, leaving nothing but black and white snow across the screen.

And he could not help himself. Time and time again his thoughts reeled back to that train carriage.

The weight of the pistol in his hand. Why did he load it? There was such power behind that trigger. It hardly sank in, the finality of life, ended behind a single bullet. Splatter of blood.

That sound.

_Bang._

**_Bang._ **

**_BANG._ **

“Artie! ARTIE! Jesus man’ ju' gone deaf brother? Hell!” Snapped Freddie angrily swatting him across the arm with a rolled-up newspaper.

“Yeah?! What? Sorry… I was miles away…” Arthur offered distractedly, rolling himself back into the present. His cigarette had burned down to the butt and a mad spiral of ink had listlessly been drawn into the page in front of him. He shook his head and sat back into his chair, tossing the pen aside as he tried to pay attention.

“Lauretta, man? Have you see the theatre director this morning?" Freddie pressed.

“Uh… no, I haven’t. I haven’t been upstairs yet. Is she not in her office?”

“Nah, bro. It’s weird. She’s always here. Even when she’s dying she’s here. I’ve never known her to have a day off.”

Their conversation was interrupted by Fay rushing into the break room, looking equally frazzled.

“I’ve just run the theatre, I can’t find her anywhere. Her bag’s not in her office. Freddie, you got her number?”

“Nah man, but Martha keeps a phone book in the box office, I’ll call her, maybe she’s sick at home.”

“Who takes over when Laura’s not here?” Arthur asked, snapping shut his notebook and getting to his feet. He felt ill as if a rush of cold water was snaking its icy fingers through his bowels. He could feel his heart stammering in his chest. His throat tightening.

“Martha, usually. But that’s rare, she’s always here.” Freddie replied.

“Well, I’ll go find Martha’s phone book and give her a call. Maybe I can swing round after work and make sure she’s okay.” Fay offered. Just as she was about to leave, Arthur's voice stilled her footsteps.

“Uh, Fay? Is it okay if I come with you too? To Lauretta’s place? “ Arthur asked quietly as if voicing the words might somehow ease his tension.

“Sure, Artie, no problem. If she’s sick you can help me keep her company while I make her some soup.”

“C’mon you two. Director or no, we got a theatre to run. Show biz sleeps for no one baby, yeeeeow!” Freddie sang out, tossing the paper onto Arthur’s table. The front page of the Gotham Enquirer held an unsettling illustration of a fanged and snarling clown. 

He thought he’d feel something more… _substantial_.

Instead, his jaw ached where he been beaten across the face. And his chest burned for every kick he received as he lay upon the dirty train carriage floor with his suited, drunken oppressors standing mockingly over him.

He was surprised how much lighter the pistol felt in his hand once he had discharged the bullets.

Now Arthur put away his satchel and notebook and made to start his day. Uniform neat and tidy. He signed his name into the sign-in register and checked his walkie-talkie before clipping it on his belt. The cast and crew of the Regale Theatre Company worked in unison that day as they did any other. The theatre however didn’t feel the same without Lauretta.

Later that morning, during the informal staff meeting that was held daily at the front of the stage, Freddie announced to the crew and cast that the theatre director appeared to not have come into work that day. When asked, no one could offer information on her lack of attendance. They sought to not worry on the whole, at least, not until Fay came rushing to Freddie’s side while he checked the men’s dressing rooms for costumes that needed laundering.

“Freddie, she’s not answering her phone!”

“She got an answering machine, right?”

“Yeah, I called three times and left a message. I hope she’s okay.”

“Tsk, don’t worry about it. She’s probably gone out for the day. Bitch coulda left a note or somethin’.” Freddie replied irritated.

“Yeah, well, Martha’s just come in. She said she’ll be in the box office in case she calls back. Artie and I’ll go past her place tonight and check in on her.” Fay answered before breaking off to join Arthur in the prop room, leaving Freddie to mutter to himself indistinctly before catching his reflection in the dressing room mirrors. He paused a moment to run a finger over his eyebrows.

There was much to do.

The hours passed in their customary bustle. Costumes were sorted, the stage was swept and mopped. Lights were checked, actors and band members rehearsed. To Arthur’s surprise, the theatre did not ground to a shuddering holt without Lauretta’s presence. He’d passed by the box office on multiple occasions and asked Martha if the director had returned their calls.

“No sweetie, no call yet. I promise, I’m calling every few hours. She’s dedicated if nothing else. She’ll call us back, I’m sure of it.” The stage manager replied.

Arthur could do nothing more than battle his anxious demons within. The only respite came from keeping busy. Keeping his hands and body moving. When he was certain eyes were not upon him, he walked the route behind the stage, taking the familiar staircase two stairs at a time and stalking the hallway to Lauretta’s office. His cool fingers grasped the doorknob and held it there a moment. In his mind's eye, he could almost see Lauretta there, sitting behind her desk writing in her ledgers or pacing the carpet with the phone against her ear. That musical, British accent of hers; so quick with her wit and an easy smile. He pushed at the doorknob and found it unlocked. Swinging open easily under his hand. It was dark and quiet within, the air held the faint scent of her rose perfume, along with the smell of leather, timber polish and lingering cigarette smoke. He found the light switch with slender fingers and blinked as the room filled with light. Everything was exactly as he had seen it the day before. The office was tidy and uncluttered. Books in their bookshelves. Magazines in the magazine rank. The hat stand in the corner was missing her coat and handbag. On her desk sat neat piles of invoices and a letter to the headset suppliers she had completed the night before. Each of the headsets had been folded down and packed into their respective boxes, then neatly loaded back into the case Arthur had given her.

And as he turned a slow circle in the room, he almost believed she was there, sitting upon the chesterfield lounge with a bright yellow teacup. Smiling at him warmly, inviting him to join her for tea and share what was on his mind.

If only.

Albarti had given her twenty-four hours.

Perhaps he should have told Freddie what he’d heard. Perhaps he should have told Fay. He sighed heavily, haunted by the oppressive silence of the office. It just wasn't the same without her. 

He turned off the light and closed the office door, reading her name in faded gold lettering upon the varnished timber.

_Dir. Lauretta Styl._

He wondered if he’d ever see her again.

That evening Fay found Arthur in the stalls helping the front of house staff clean up after the show.

“Artie, are you still coming with me to Laura’s place?”

“Yeah, of course. Hang on a minute, let me go upstairs and grab my bag.”

“Okay, I’ll wait for you upfront.” The young brunette replied, hefting her backpack over her shoulder. Arthur took the stairs two at a time, taking hold his coat and bag from his locker, knocking it shut with his elbow. He bolted from the break room, snaking his arm through his jacket as he raced back down the stairs to meet Fay at the box office counter chatting with Martha.

The stage manager wished them both a good night and watched them hop into a cab that led uptown.

It wasn’t a particularly long ride to Lauretta’s address. They were at her front door in one of the nicer parts of mid-town Gotham inside of ten minutes. The stoop had been swept of leaves recently and there was definitely less graffiti and garbage around.

“Have you been to Laura’s place before?” Asked Arthur of Fay as they made their way up the steps to her evergreen door with its heavy brass knocker.

“Yeah, a few times. Laura’s done me a few good turns over the years. She’s a true friend in a city of fly-throughs if you know what I mean.”

Arthur nodded earnestly. He shared this sentiment wholeheartedly.

“Wow, this sure is a nice place. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a nice building.” He commented, brushing his fingertips across the rough sandstone bannister.

“Yeah, they’re old Victorian townhouses that have been renovated over the years. That’s strange though, she’s got a hall lamp, but it doesn’t look like her light’s on.” Said Fay whilst standing on tip-toe and pushing her face to the glass of the front room window.

Arthur took hold the knocker and used its weight to rap sharply upon the timber door.

Together the pair waited in the glow of the street lamplight.

When their first knock was not answered, Arthur tried again, injecting more force and urgency behind his knocking.

“Hello? Laura? Are you home? It’s Fay and Artie, we just wanted to check in on you.” Fay called against the timber. The pair stood back and waited a moment, exchanging perplexed looks with each other.

One minute stretched into two, then three.

Nothing.

Except for the sound of a barking dog in the distance and someone’s overfed family cat dashing past on the sidewalk below.

Arthur tried the knocker a third time, giving it he’s all.

“Maybe she’s staying somewhere else tonight?” Fay offered after a few more minutes meandered by. Wait as they would their knocking was not answered by the theatre director. No light was turned on and her tidy little townhouse remained eerily quiet.

“C’mon. She’s not here. We may as well go home. She’ll probably be back at work tomorrow.” Fay said, at last, resigning herself to her disappointment. Arthur told her he hoped so as well. The pair strolled down the steps and made their way down the quiet residential street until they came upon the main road.

Arthur waited until Fay was safely seated inside the backseat of a warm cab that would take her home then walked down the street to the nearest bus stop. In spite of his colleague's protestations, he assured her he didn't mind taking the bus. In was only a few minutes across town anyway. He stood on the sidewalk and waved with a half-hearted smile as the taxi took off from the curb.

He wanted to be alone with his thoughts. Now more than ever, his head swam, recalling the conversation he had heard behind the theatre director's door. He smoked to pass the time, looking at his wristwatch every now and then. Checking the timetable posted to the bus stop sign. The nine-twenty-five was running late by seven minutes.

When he finally boarded the service that would take him home downtown, his stomach felt as though it was knotted inside out. His head was buzzing.

Tomorrow was Saturday.

He had his stand up set at Pogo’s to worry about after work.

“Happy? You’re leaving so early, it’s not even seven yet.” Called Penny from the kitchen as she watched her son fumble with his shoelaces and grab his coat from the back of the couch where he had thrown it the night before.

“Yeah Ma, I’m going to put in an extra hour at work so I can leave early. I’ve got a show on tonight. Are you okay for breakfast?” He called over his shoulder, making sure he had his notebook in his satchel before patting his pockets down for his house keys.”

“I’ll manage. Don’t come home too late. I’ll be waiting for you.”

“Sure Ma, I’ll see you later.”

He shut the door on his mother’s reply, his thoughts a scrambled mess of tiredness that he fought to disperse as walked briskly to the end of the block to catch the next bus to the theatre. Sleep had not been a friend the night before. He tossed and turned in his bed beside his mother while she snored peacefully. Until at last, he could take no more. He threw off the covers and padded on bare feet down the hall to the living room, flicking on the TV before throwing himself down on the old couch. He'd watch something until his eyes grew heavy. He must have dozed off at some point. When he next woke, the morning light was just beginning to stream in through the living room window and the urge to empty his bladder finally pulled him from the couch cushions.

The barking, uncontrollable fits of laughter that racked his body seemed to batter him with greater frequency since he’d taken the last of his pills some weeks back. Their longevity had doubled, leaving him winded and exhausted. 

Before long, Arthur found himself in front of the stage where Freddie and his other crewmates were gathered together whispering quietly amongst themselves. He joined them on rapid footfalls, scanning the stage for Lauretta.

“She’s still not here,” Fay replied in answer to his unspoken question. “And she didn’t answer her calls either. We’ve already tried her six times this morning.”

Around him, the crew were whispering questions,

“Did she live with anyone?”

“Does anyone know if she has any family?”

“She didn’t even leave a note, just up and left.”

Martha took to the stage bringing everyone to a stuttering silence.

“Well ladies and gents, try as I might we have to assume that Lauretta will not be joining us again today. I’ll continue to call her periodically throughout the day and hopefully, we can get a message across to her. For now, we continue as always. Last two shows of the season people, so let's keep it clipped and tidy.”

Again the team dispersed in groups of twos and threes. Whispering amongst themselves. About the garbage strike, and the clown killer and the three men from Wall Street that were gunned down in their prime. Mostly, they talked about Lauretta.

Arthur felt sick to the stomach all day.

As he passed the box office he paused to ask if the director had called back. Martha simply shook her head no. She hadn’t called back.

Where was she?

Where could she be?

Arthur churned with the realization that the correct question was in fact, what had happened to her?

How little he knew about her.

He left work early asking his colleagues to keep him informed if she called back. He'd invited both Fay and Freddie to his show at Pogo's that night, along with Sophie; that pretty young mother that lived down the hall from him.

He hoped she'd show up. He was determined to give his best performance.

And that night as he stood on that stage, exposed in the spotlight in front of a full house, bristling with pride and nervous tension – he choked.

And laughed.


	10. Ten.




	11. Eleven.

The weekend had come and gone, Monday rolled into Tuesday and no one had heard a word from Lauretta Styl. She did not attend work, nor answer her phone. Martha made some enquiries in her neighbourhood and took it upon herself to visit Lauretta’s home using the spare key the theatre director had entrusted her with many years ago. To her dismay, there was nothing to find. The house was calm and quiet. Everything was neat and tidy. A place for everything and everything in its place. This in its self was so much like Lauretta. Neat and orderly in a world of chaos and confusion. Martha checked the bedroom wardrobes and found all of Lauretta's clothes neatly racked on their hangers. There didn't appear to be any gaps between the garments that would suggest she had pulled certain items down to go away with. Conscience of the invasion of privacy, Martha pressed on, searching through her colleague's chest of draws, dressing table and nightstands, looking for anything that might indicate the Englishwoman had up and left. The more she searched, the more discouraged she became, the first lash of panic began to rear its ugly head in the pit of her belly. The bed had been made and it was impossible to tell when it was last slept in. And her cosmetics lay recently used on the dresser. In the living room, the answering machine flashed its little red light.

“You have, twelve new messages.” Replied the mechanical voice. And every single one was her or her staff asking where she was and if she was okay. That was enough. With shaking hands Martha pressed the stop button on the machine, picked up the phone and called the police.

The phone call to 911 in and of its self was nerve-wracking. She faltered, stumbling over her words. This was crazy! What would she tell them?

A female officer on the other line pressed her.

"Ma'am? What is it you wanted to report?"

"A missing person. A Miss Lauretta Styl. Please send someone around quickly. Something's gone very, very wrong."

When the police arrived some twenty-five minutes later, Martha received them in Laueretta’s cosy living room and explained everything she knew. That Lauretta Styl had gone missing without a word. That she showed no sign of agitation when she was last seen at work and lived alone here in this very townhouse.

The two male officers in their dark blue uniforms, looking tired yet resilient, took a statement and requested Martha accompany them down to the station which she did without a moment’s hesitation.

Once there, she was escorted into a small interview room where a pair of sharp-eyed detectives took her statement and the spare key to Lauretta’s home. The very same detectives, after some deliberation, took it upon themselves to return to the Englishwoman's townhouse with a forensics crew. The house was swept from top to bottom. Fingerprints lifted, photographs taken. A missing person’s report was filed. The disappearance marked suspicious.

The following day the same detective pair arrived at the theatre just after 8 AM. Martha was obliged to round up the staff while the detective inspectors advised that they had questions for each of them and would speak with them both as a group and individually in private.

The last person to be questioned was Arthur Fleck.

“Your colleagues tell us you were the last person to see Ms. Styl before her disappearance, Mr. Fleck. Can you tell us what happened on that night?”

This was it. His gut eating its self in roiling waves of sheer panic, his thoughts spiralling out of control and racing down the darkest and most insidious paths. Something inside him shuddered loose in wild terror. What if they caught him? Here, now, in front of everyone? It couldn't end like this, it just couldn't. There was so much left to do...

Arthur Fleck sat placidly, smoking down a cigarette. He swallowed his terror. After all, he was nobody. For thirty-four years of his life, he'd argued with the meaning of existence, convinced that the world over-looked him. Turned the other way. Left his voice unheard. What did it matter really, looking the police in the eye and divulging the absolute truth?

And so, with dignity and absolute single-minded intention, Arthur Fleck told them everything.

“Do you know who the man was that she was arguing with? Have you ever seen him before?” Asked Detective Inspector Goya as he took notes in a battered pocket notebook.

“No, never.” Arthur admitted through the pale plume of exhaled smoke held between nicotine yellowed fingers.

The detectives had heard enough. They'd been at this for seven and a half hours now.

“Hey, while we’re here, our records indicate you were previously an employee of Ha Ha’s Entertainment. Your boss said he let you go. Is that right?” Goya pressed. The question phrased conversationally, as though it was an afterthought.

Arthur’s knee began to bounce nervously in his seat. He’d evaded questioning and detection for as long as he could manage. He’d wanted nothing more than to slip silently into ambiguous oblivion. To keep himself under the radar. Now, alone in Lauretta’s office with two detectives watching him intently, he could not help but feel like a rat in a cage. His insides scrutinized in the midst of dissection.

He dug deep. Feigned ignorance, offered pity and agreed profusely. The Wall Street murders were terrible, appalling. Criminals needed to be put to justice.

In his head, he heard the hammer fall on the pistol and watched the bullet discharge into hot flesh in a splatter of gore. And he felt nothing for them. Nothing at all.

And so, Arthur offered to refill the detectives' coffee cups and when they refused he walked them carefully back down the stairs behind the stage, around the wings to the foyer where Martha greeted them, stepping out of her box office.

They would take their reports back to the police station and continue their investigation. They offered no placations, nor apologies and if they felt they had made any headway as a result of their questioning that day, it did not show in their faces. Instead, they left their cards and requested Martha call immediately if circumstances changed or she remembered anything else.

They had all the leads they needed.

On the drive back to Gotham Police Department, Detective Inspector's Goya and Cessle speculated on the parameters of their investigation. As far as they were concerned, of course, the Regale Theatre Company was either backed by or strong-armed by the mob. There were few legitimate businesses left in Gotham City that didn’t possess support from some two-bit Sicilian conman or other. They didn’t have a name to pin to yet, but it wouldn’t take them too long to find one. They had already taken what they needed from Fleck's statement. The rest of that theatre crew were as clueless as rabbits in the dark. But Fleck, well, they almost felt sorry for that skinny idiot. If ever a portrait of being in the wrong place at the wrong time was painted, Fleck had unwillingly walked right into the frame.

No doubt, the Englishwoman was threatened, she saw no way out and likely fled for her life. Without a sound into the night. That was their working hypothesis thus far. They’d have to be formal from here on out. They'd arrange for a warrant to be written up within the day and return with it to search both the theatre and her home, removing whatever evidence they’d need. Communications were already being run to identify a match for her passport or license in the event that they were used to book flights or train passage anywhere out of the city or more likely, the country.

Meanwhile, later that night the crew began to complain of an ugly smell permeating the stage. It was feint a day ago or so but now they looked at each other puzzled and agreed it was growing ever more pungent.

“Damn, phew! Can you smell that Artie?!” Freddie quipped as he checked the fly ropes for the curtains.

“Yeah, ugh! What is it?”

“Something dead, probably a rat or somethin' holed up under the stage an' kicked it.” Freddie replied flicking his hand back and forward in front of his nose to disperse the rank odour.

Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Arthur offered to report the smell to Martha who agreed to call someone from the maintenance crew to arrive later that evening and carry out an inspection. If they did not deal with the source of the funk quickly, it would permeate across the entire theatre and the stink would become unbearable. Goodness knew that there were enough filthy odours to breathe in outside in the streets without patrons having to be subjected to that kind of dirty stench in the theatre as well. They’d had dead rodents, stray cats and other creatures climb in through drain pipes, windows and stage doors before. The unfortunate creatures found a way to become trapped and unable to escape.

This was likely another instance.

Late that night, long after the theatre crew had gone home, old Graham that worked contract janitorial services for the theatre came in after-hours as a favour to Martha. They shared a cup of coffee together discussing the disturbance that had come to pass with Lauretta's unprecedented disappearance, both of them shaking their heads in disbelief. As the hour grew later, Graham set down his coffee cup and followed the stage manager into the theatre proper, where the pair stood by the stage wings and reluctantly breathed in; only to cough and curse a second later, for the stench was absolutely repugnant. 

"Oh yeah, you definitely have something dead around here." Graham confirmed, pulling a protective respirator mask from his tool bag and fixing it over his mouth and nose. It wouldn't do much in the way of keeping out the smell, but at very least he wouldn't be exposed to sawdust and other contaminants that accumulated under the stage. His many years of experience meant that was usually the first place he looked for dead animals.

Without further delay, Graham went about unbolting the service doors from under the stage revealing the tool storage units that the carpenters used for set building and the matrix of support beams that stretched out into the dark. All at once, the ghastly stink rose up alarmingly. No doubt this was exactly where the animal in question had holed up and died.

He adjusted his gloves and mask, hoping beyond hope that he wouldn't have to fight a hoard of vermin when he found the corpse.

Martha covered her nose and mouth with a handkerchief and offered to hold his work torch.

“Egh! For God’s sake! I don’t remember dead rat smelling this deplorable.” She wheezed through her fingers.

“Well, the sooner we get it out of here the sooner we can get the theatre aired out properly.”

Storage crates and service toolboxes were moved. The rancorous smell seemed to triple in intensity, billowing out to greet them both like a blow to the face.

“Phaw! We’re definitely getting close. Here, Martha, give me that torch, I’ll take it from here.”

The stage manager did not hesitate to distance herself away from the stage and back into the audience seats. The stink was making her feel light-headed.

A few minutes later, after much banging and swearing, Graham called out,

“You got some props under here, Martha?”

“What kind? We don’t keep props under the stage.” The woman replied, unwilling to come any closer to the stage in spite of her curiosity.

“Yeah, well, this one looks like a mannequin hand or somethin’. It's caught funny. Gonna have to unlock the trap door to get it out.” Graham shouted back. His ageing eyes weren't as sharp as they once were. Even in the light of the torch beam, it was hard to tell what he was looking at exactly. The space under the stage being as low, dark and cramped as it was. Regardless, he doubled over, mindful of the uneven flooring and made to unbolt the latch to the shaft that held up the stage trap door.

He had to force the bolt as it seemed whichever cowboy locked it last had put a Herculean effort into knocking the damn thing into place. He put his weight behind it and finally with a lot of shoving, the bolt slid free and the trap door swung open with a loud crack. With it, something big and heavy fell free landing against the timber beams with a galvanic thud. 

The first thing that hit him was the smell.

The screams that filled the theatre that night would forever entomb themselves within those walls.

The Regale Theatre Company was shut down by police barricade.

A line of patrol cars up and down the street illuminated the cold dark shopfronts in the early hours of the morning with their red and blue lights. Uniformed police officers first to the scene had escorted Martha and Graham out through the backstage door where they tried to placate their new witnesses and take a statement even though the pair were all but paralyzed in catatonic shock. Yellow crime scene tape had been put up across the theatre's doors. Before long a forensics unit and state coroners trucks were given way as they rolled up onto the sidewalk. Traffic had been blocked from both ends of the street.

A cold rain fell over Gotham City as a black body bag was rolled away on a stretcher.


	12. Prologue

Arthur Fleck stayed on long after the mourners had dispersed back into their black cars and driven away in the grey drizzle of the late Spring afternoon. All the colours seemed to have been sucked from the world.

The leaves of the trees shimmered a muted muddy green under an overcast, heavily clouded grey sky.

The priest dusted his hands of the dirt he'd cast upon the casket as he walked from the grave returning to the old church in the distance.

Arthur alone stood at the foot of the grave in his dated ruby coloured suit and fading green-dyed hair combed neatly away from his gaunt, cadaverous face. He lowered his black umbrella, looping the timber handle into the crook of his elbow, inwardly shivering in spite of himself.

Slender, nicotine-stained fingers sought to light his last cigarette from a crumpled packet in his coat pocket whilst his eyes flicked back and forward over the elegant bouquet of white flowers that blanketed the soil that would see Lauretta Styl put forever to rest.

And he thought it ironic that not even four lots away, Penny Fleck rested in a similar dark lacquered coffin under six feet of soil beneath a plain, unornamented headstone that he had no intention of ever visiting. He’d stood at the mouth of her grave as well, watching in dry-eyed fascination as the gravediggers shovelled soil over her casket long after her priest had also walked away. Penny Fleck did not have any mourners. He laid a token white carnation at her headstone.

His head bowed, lips moving in apparent prayer, he whispered so only her ghost might hear.

“I’m not sorry, Ma. Just like you never were.”

This was different.

So unlike the numb remorselessness he felt at his mother’s funeral. This one actually hurt. His eyes watered and spilt genuine tears that he made no attempt at wiping away. His heart ached with a loss and bittersweet freedom that in its own way felt as though a small universe had been unwillingly pulled from his shoulders. There was nothing left to hold onto anymore.

Nothing to fear losing.

Nothing left to take away.

Arthur Fleck flicked the butt of his cigarette into the foot of Lauretta Styl’s grave and left the decaying churchyard with its unattended headstones and broken memories behind. He’d return home and prepare himself, for that very night he had been invited to appear on the Murray Franklin Show.

He’d waited all his life for this moment. He’d take nothing but his best with him.

His battered notebook and Lauretta’s sky blue handkerchief tucked gently inside his breast coat pocket.


	13. Thirteen.




	14. The Gallery

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